


everything not of faith (is a sin.)

by kuugeki (strangestirony)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lucifer (TV)
Genre: ;), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angels and Demons, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Fix-It of Sorts, Fraternizing, Kid Fic, M/M, Needs A Rewrite, THE TAGS ARE UNRELIABLE, Unreliable Narrator, and it’s the au where two not straights supernatural beings try to raise a baby, and no, aziraphale would have whooped gabriel’s ass, discontinued, gay ass people, if so, no pressure, specifically Crowley and Aziraphale, this is why we can’t have nice things, to try and prevent the end of the world, we are not following biblical angel hierarchy, yes it’s also that au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-05-18 20:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19341880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangestirony/pseuds/kuugeki
Summary: Crowley hardly ever looked at the past. But, it was very hard when everything he associated himself with, and everything he did, reminded him of it. Was it in a demon's handbook to be a masochist? It is hardly an ethereal concept.[BEING RE-WRITTEN AS “THE FALLEN GOD”.][THIS IS DISCONTINUED.]





	1. he didn’t fall. just sauntered vaguely downwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, it’s depicted that in the beginning, Crowley didn’t mean to fall—so that was as good as not falling in his book. And well, what made him a demon? That was him, unintentionally sauntering vaguely downwards.

Before he had met Aziraphale, he was a nameless demon, slithering in the crooks of Hell, watching silently at the idiots that cursed Heaven and slandered God's name in fits of rage. Before he was a nameless serpent—a form that was placed on him upon fallen, by his dear ol' mum, or dad, or whatever they went by currently—he was an angel.  _Well_ , he could fight to say that, the idiotic bunch he could see from his left, right, behind, and front, were all Angels once. Angels, or in his words, a species of dignified psychopaths who did everything in the name of some bullshit like the greater good, or some other bullshit, like, the Almighty's name.  _Delusional._

Though, to get back to you on that, he  _literally_ was nameless, as in he did not have a name, as in he wasn't important, like some no-name background character that meshed with the rest. The Fallen were cursed to remember what is was like to live as a pure Angel, cursed to remember what they were, what they lost. They remembered everything, down to the last days they were called their name bestowed upon them by the Almighty, but they could not take such name anymore. They were forbidden.

_(The present-nameless serpent had sardonically mused upon how the demons had rebelled against the teachings of Heaven, against their creator, and yet still upheld what was forbidden to them by those that they fought against. Or maybe the really did forget.)_

Though, he could argue that they had no rights to such titles anymore. Like how Samael had taken on the name Lucifer, or  _Satan_.  _Which_ reminded him, that in the last four days that the Great Heavenly-blah-blah- _blah_ war had ended, since he fell, he hasn't gone to see his new Lord and Almighty, his brother himself.  _(Mind the sarcasm.)_

 

* * *

 

Hell was dirty, ragged, and had no view of the world below. It was  _below_ the mortal world. Still, he slithered down, and down, into the deepest pits of hell, where his dear ol' brother resided now, in his new and shiny throne. The nameless fallen angel had gathered his demonic and divine powers, still embed within himself, and shifted.

Sam— _Lucifer_ had quietly watched, amused and interested all the same as he shifted, from the serpent to a tall and lanky man. Black, run-in-the-mill robes which used to be pure white, had hugged his form as he looked at the world from a higher level once more. His nose twitched and he sniffed. Hell was much less suffocating when he was, but a serpent, who had to smell through his tongue. And trust him, he did not poke his tongue anytime during these four days.

Once he had assumed humanoid form, his brother ascended from his throne, grinning smugly. " _Ah,_ " He cooed smugly, and clapped his hand onto the unnamed's back.

"Oh,  _Raphael_ , I knew you'd always come and follow me!"

The now identified Raphael had hissed through his teeth, ringing true to his serpent form and shrugged the arm off with a pained grimace. "We both know that I didn't really want to follow you,  _brother_ ," He spat, and his wings flared from his body in response, a reflex.

Lesser angels, like your regular ones, had their wings rot and crumble into ashes in the fall. Cherubs and Cupids foolish enough to follow his brother didn't even survive the fall. And then there was him, him, who still had his wings, which were now sleek and in color of the blackest nights. At the sound of feathers, Raphael had looked back to see his new sets of wings, and gave it a conflicting look.

"It'sssss not really Raphael, anymore, issss it,  _Sssssamael_?" He hissed, quite literally, at the silence as they both observed his wings, which were much different from his wide and divine verdant ones.

Lucifer had grimaced, "No... I suppose not." He muttered.

They had revoked their faith to the Almighty, to God, in the name of free will, and they fell in return.  _(Though, that was more him. Samael has only raised his blade against their creator because he was a jealous fool, who could not bare to be second fiddling to the humans that their father-mother created.)_ It was only fitting, as was it forbidden, that they had shed of their angelic names. Besides...  _Raphael_ didn't really fit him, anymore, did it? With his sulphur yellow, serpentine eyes that gazed at everything with hints of malice and madness, and his new, lithe form that he gave himself. The now— _again_ —unnamed fallen Archangel had folded his wings back into his person with a sigh.

They had retracted into his form with a flap and he rolled is back. Shoving them back inside was always a bit uncomfortable, and he hadn't retracted his wings a lot, if not at all. His eyes, not yet shielded like it would be in the years, had scanned his brother, who had not changed at all, aside from the wings that he hadn't retracted. They were scarlet, an angry red and more of a bat than any graceful bird they had been before.

Yet, Lucifer had still shown brightly, like he did before. Brighter, angrier, and yet, not at all warm like the older sibling  _Raphael_  had remembered the entity to be. Now, forever cold and tainted with darkness. It made the now-serpent demon sick to his stomach, yet he couldn't explain why. 

"Have you been integrated into your new family yet, brother?" Lucifer continued smoothly, in his baritone voice that has the other Fallen Archangel bristling at.

"This isn't a  _family_ , no more than it is, yours. These are your lot, your underlings—and  _brother_ ," He held out in a hiss, unmindful of his snake tongue, "I do not want any part of your kingdom."

With that, he had started to shift, scales slowly melding from his human skin, showing on his face little by little as his body thinner out into a more snake-like appearance. He turned his big, slit eyes onto the new ruler of Hell and hissed, before turning to slither away from the depths of hell.

"You never did want anything, did you brother! Always running away." Lucifer hollered from behind him. "Isn't that why you  _fell_?!"

As it turns out, the still unnamed serpent had ignored the question, and slithered away. The Garden of Eden sounds like a nice place to integrate himself into, for a while. Perhaps, afterwards, he could visit Alpha Centauri—or maybe even one of the countless nebulas he had created from the depths of his mind and a touch of his fingers.

_(I didn't want to fall. I just was around the wrong group at the wrong time. I just asked too many questions, He croaked and as he broke the ground, finally feeling the sun's heat settle onto his scales, he looked up at the sky, where he was without a doubt, expecting the Almighty to be watching from above._

_Why did you cast me away?)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *softly singing* Oh Lord, heal this poor gay soul.


	2. no name finds something interesting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I slithered here from Eden,   
> just to sit outside your door."

The crust brokehe poked his head out, sight set on Adam and Eve, the very first humans. The unnamed demon had hissed and slithered away from them. After God had created them, everything went to hell.  _Really_. The forces of Heaven had been divided between the jealous and rage of Samael and the unshakeable programming of Michael's forces. Raphael was still off of Heaven, touching the corners of the universe and birthing stars and galaxies, alike. Gabriel was being the little bitch he was and following his eldest sibling faithfully.  _Truly, Raphael had loved all of his siblings, but they were all jackasses._

Though, love was what divided them, wasn't it? When  _Dad_ had gone and create what was unanimously, and bitterly called his greatest creation,  _humans_ , they had been ordered to love and protect them. There was only two of them. Adam and Eve, ignorant of everything, but the Garden they were trapped in.

The serpent eyed the pair.  _Truly_ , a worthy subject to start a war by.  _Don't mind his sarcasm_. Their glazed gazes didn't help either. Isn't this why he fell? Questioning their teachings, their programming excessively, because he didn't understand  _why_ ,  _why did you do this_ , but all that did was get him kicked out. Still...

He slithered behind Eve, tongue sticking out and hissing into her ear. He watches, with Raphael's fascination, at the temptation he spreads, as a demon now, instead of divine miracles,  _eat it, come on, taste freedom, awareness. Good and bad. Taste it. Sense it. Know it._ He hissed once again, tongue flicking out.

Eve walks towards the big apple tree of knowledge and he stares, tilting his serpent head in wonder. The girl eats it, taking a huge bite out of the fruit and the fog in her eyes disappear. She hurries and offers the fruit to Adam, who also takes a bite. The unfocused expression that was etched on his face, clears, and they stare at each other, awareness camping on their faces.

If he could grin in his serpent form, he would, but he couldn't, so he had hissed gleefully instead. Adam and Eve, know aware of their nature, their mortality, and everything that entails with humanity, stares at the big confines they were trapped in. A huge brick wall encircles them, guarded by Principalities—Angels of the North, West, South and Easy gate, respectively. Then, they set to plan, out of their own free will, and the nameless now-demon stares with interest.

They had stared at their large confines, and decided they wanted out. He hissed, slithered away and watched from the distance as the humans worked. They had created coverings from the leaves plucked from the lush and verdant— _just like his wings were. Lush, and green, so very much green_ —trees, once they were aware of feelings such as embarrassment and concepts like decency. Then, they had started to break their prison. They had chosen the East.

While Adam and Eve had eaten, taken from the Garden, they weren't aware of things such as hunger, before become aware of heir mortality. Everything around them, everything that functioned, even the tongue they spoke, just sounds and garbles which would soon be refined into a multitude of languages he would forget across the times, were just there. They just were. Until now.

While the Almighty had yet to create things like a rainstorm, which She would do so soon, weather and climate had existed. The nights were cold, and the humans had to learn the basics of survival. All in all, he watched with interest.  _Major interest_. Such as, what were the principalities doing? Shouldn't they be aware of such...  _rebelliousness_ of the humans? Shouldn't the Almighty be able to know?

He brushed the questions aside. Questions were things that had him casted away anyways.  _(He could feel the burning and heat as he fell, and fell. His wings burned, and he could fell his form flicker, burning and become a mass of celestial energy before reshaping into a serpent. He cried out in shock, in despair and agony. Yet, he still questioned her. Why? Why? Whywhywhywhy?)_

While serpents didn't need to blink as much, he still did, trying to push the memories aside. They were  _bad_ , they weren't him—he was a new man, was he not? No longer the Archangel Raphael, and now just a low and measly demon who was more powerful than others, hidden from the rest of Hell. He didn't even want to touch his new...  _whatever_ with a ten-foot pole.

And then, finally. They did it. The hole in the Eastern gate would probably have the Principality who guarded the East Gate fired from his position and reassigned somewhere else, like the Choir.  _Ugh_.

_(Still, he had been Raphael for centuries, upon centuries. That triumphed over four days, any day.)_

 

* * *

 

God had yet to create seasons, like Winter, Summer, Spring or Fall. The days were the same, nice and just as cool as you had envisioned everyday to be, and breezy in the night as the humans cuddled up to the warm fire. Of course, he didn't really care about that, so he went and slithered off, doing his own thing and from time to time, observed the angels guarding the gates.

They were idiots.

Maybe except the East one, but he could argue that the slightly chubbier angel was also an idiot for not noticing the hole in his gate. But then, the angel had just flown down, held out his flaming sword—a divine weapon _—_ and passed it onto Adam like a hot potato, not that such a thing had existed yet. Well, imperfect weather had yet to exist either, but as the principality returned to his post on top of the gate, and both Adam, who held the flaming sword crawled out of the hole, offering support to the pregnant Eve a second after, the first thunderstorm in ever was about to grace the Earth.

He sniffed at the crisp smell of the air and the ozone that the starting and rumbling of lightning was leaving behind. The demon, who used to be known as Raphael, had slithered onto the Eastern Gate, next to the rather rebellious principality, and shifted into his new form.

The scales slowly eased away, melding into patterns that disappeared into skin. His head held a good and defined jaw, as well as some pronounced cheekbones. The only thing that really remained from his serpent form was his cat-slit eyes and his ability to hiss. He was taller than the angel next to him, and his hair was the color of dulling flames. His jet black wings fanned out beside him, basking in the freedom and air it got, as both demon and angel watched the first humans encounter their first adversary.

Though, the demon did get a good look at his long, flaming locks. He had wryly thought that, at least something hadn't changed during his fall. Such as his long, ginger licks of hair. Though that might be something of his, since angels and well,  _demons_ , since they came from the same stock, had always had the ability to change their corporal forms.

He frowned. "Well..." He drawled as he watched Adam swing helplessly at the lion that had crossed their paths.

The human male had swiped, flames dancing from it's blade as he held back the animal from the pregnant female. He hissed through his teeth as the lion's head was cut off cleanly by the sharp blade, even giving a dramatic wince as the section of the head, on both sides, that touched the flaming blade, had smoked.

"That went down like a lead balloon," He muttered.  _But, they'd have something to eat._

The angel turned, brows furrowing. "Sorry?" He questioned and his pure, white wings, standard for a regular angel, had slowly pulled over his head to shield himself from the first drops of rain.

It wasn't unpleasant, to feel the cool drops touch his cheek, but it was annoying to feel it dampen his hair. The demon shrugged, serpentine eyes looking at the small forms of Adam and Eve as they moved away from the Garden of Eden.

"I said, 'well that went down like a lead balloon.'" He repeated, slower this time and clearer.

"Oh, right—yes," The angel said.

He frowned, once again. "I don't really get what's bad about it. Put the big tree in the middle of the Garden and not ask for it not to be touched was kind of dumb. Besides, kind of nice, ain't it? Knowing the difference between good and bad." He said.

"Well, obviously you're a demon," the angel glanced at him, though looking puzzled at his wings, before staring ahead again. "It  _must_ be bad since  _you're_ involved."

The demon almost winced at the prejudice and almost poisonous tone used at him. Well, he'd better be used to it, now, since demons were held with extreme prejudice and viewed in a very bad light. Not that it didn't ring true, from what he seen of the gits down below. He'd also sworn off his angelic name.  _Though_ , he kept coming back to it. The demon sighed.

He looked at the rather nervous principality. "Well, they just went, 'Get up there and go make some trouble.'" He figured a lie wouldn't hurt, and it didn't burn at his grace like it used too, anymore—lying that was, since he was a demon now.

Though, he didn't understand why he had lie. Perhaps it was his deep and burning shame of falling, as Raphael? Being an almighty Archangel, of higher powers than those cherubs or Cupid's, or  _whatever_ , who was suppose to be a symbol, one for the others to follow, and yet he still fell pitifully and became a hated demon. He'd have to work on that a bit more.

"Yes, but you're a demon. I'm not sure if it's possible for you to do good," he said and the newly-minted demon had to just give a stink-eye at the angel.  _Surely,_ you were jesting?

"It's down to your basic nature, nothing personal, you must understand," he added and,  _no_ , he didn't, since demons and angels came from the same stock, only demons, the fallen angels had rebelled.

He purses his lips, "You gotta admit its a bit pantomime, though. Like I said, planting a big ol' tree in the middle of all this, and expecting nobody to just touch it? I mean—why not put it up in some high mountain or somewhere they can't reach it." He replied, once again with his curious nature that got him cast out.

"Makes you wonder what She's really thinking," he added, bitterly.

"Best not to speculate, really," the angel replied, if not a bit nervous, "You can't second-guess ineffability. There's  _right_  and there's  _wrong_. If you do  _wrong_  when told to do  _right_ , you get punished..."

Though the angel had trailed off, looking a bit embarrassed at his passionate outburst. The demon wrinkled his nose and stared at the angel, no doubt, who had listened to whatever bullshit Gabriel had spouted, and taken it to heart. His nose twitched and his sniffs like some English aristocrat, all condescending and arrogant.

"Didn't you have a flaming sword?" He knew that the East Guard did, all of them did, and he also knew that he angel gave it away, but he wasn't going to tell him that.

The angel flushed red and he looked away. A guilty expression passed his face, before deciding to come back and set up shop there. The demon smirks. While he spouted some bull crap programming, he did have a rebellious streak and the ex-Archangel liked that. The angel mumbled something and turned even further away.

"You did, didn't you?" He added, just a hint of teasing in his voice, yet still incredulous as if he hadn't seen it happen with his own eyes. "It flamed like anything!"

"I— _well_ —"

"—Lost it, have you?"

"No! Well—not exactly."

Both of his ginger eyebrows raised in question as he faced the angel, who was more than embarrassed by now, would like for the stone ground to swallow him up, and sniggered silently. The angel sputters for a moment before mumbling again.

"Gave it away," he whispered, almost ashamed, but he  _shouldn't_ be.

The demon smirks again. "What was that?"

"If you must know," the angel replies, now a little testily as an expression, half between panicked and desperate crossed his face, "I gave it away."

"You,  _what_?" He laughed.

"Well, I had to!" The angel had amended, with the kindness level of a saint, if you got his drift. "They looked so cold, those poor things."

The demon looked unimpressed.  _You should have seen them in the earlier months, then._ He thought wryly.

"And—well," the angel stuttered at the dry look, "They're so miserable! There are just vicious animals out there and it's going to get colder—and she's expecting!"

His tone is borderline whining, which the demon notes with with a hint of amusement.

"So, I said, 'Here you to—flaming sword. Don't thank me, and don't let the sun go down on you here.' Though..." he trailed off, looking worried once more. "I do hope I did the right thing."

The demon shot him another dirty look.  _By your definition, of not just a few moments ago, you lot are incapable of doing wrong._ "Well, you're an Angel, I don't think you  _can_ do wrong," He mock-comforts with sarcasm heavily laced into his voice.

Though, the angel is oblivious to the tone and sags in relief at the confirmation, even if it came from a demon. "Oh—oh,  _thank you_. It's been bothering me," he breathed out softly.

The demon purses his lips and looks away. "Though, it is kind of worrying for me too—if I did the right thing with the whole apple thing. Though I could be commended for being the first to ever tempt somebody with my  _evil wiles_ ," He spoke with sarcasm, and not at all concerned of the backlash of his new head office, if speculation about the morality of the very first temptation were to spread amongst Hell.

Though, he didn't really care for his brother or little-big gang of moldy fallen angels, even if he technically fell under the same category. Though, he did grin and nudge at the angel, seeing as how the poor sod was fidgeting nervously and if not a bit fearfully.  _Look at you little ones, always nervous and skittish around us and the Almighty_ He cooed inwardly.

_(He would go to question if he was referring to the demons, or when he was Raphael, the older angels such as Archangels.)_

"It'd be funny, though, if I did the right thing and you did the wrong one," He added teasingly.

The angel had let a smile break from his lips before the weight behind the words caught up to him and the smile almost broke  _instantly_. His smile froze and then slid off his face as he looked at the what-used-to-be-one-of-your-graceful-archangels in a horrified manner, that the demon would even  _suggest_ such a thing.

"What? No, that's not funny at all!"

Then, the thunderstorm begins to strike, the first of many which will accompany the evolution of the Earth as the tiny dots that were Adam and Eve disappeared over the horizon. The demon squints.  _Did they really talk that long? Or were the humans just that fast?_ He wondered before squashing the questions. Nobody would answer them anyways, just like before.

The heavy droplets pelted him, but he didn't really feel the connection of his wings anymore. They were like two, useless limbs holding him down. What used to be his most precious part of himself, had disconnected, and got away from him.  _(Perhaps in time he would find them to be as though they were his angel pairs. Though, not now.)_

Unashamed, he scooted closer to the angel, and had a small— _big and smug_ —smile on his face when the principality's left wing had came up to shield him too.

Maybe this one had some potential, apart from his gullible personality, if he were to believe some bullshit propaganda that spewed right of of Gabriel, who was always willing to please and follow Michael or any of his older siblings really.

_(Raphael had hated him after a good two days of that the Archangel known as Gabriel had been created. Michael had taken a liking to the little shit and well, Samael was just off and spoiling him. Raphael was stricter but soon, he also warmed up to the little tyke.)_

 

* * *

 

Oh. That's what he forgot.

The demon forgot to ask the little Principality what his name was. Though, maybe that was something he had evaded, since he hadn't had given himself a name, anyways?

 


	3. it's a tedious process

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crawley wasn't really working out.

They meet again, in a few years, where the Garden of Eden still stands. The angel he had spoken with before still stands to guard the East Gate, despite how terrible he is at guarding it. Just like the first time, he slithers up, this time from the other side of the wall, and shifts back into his mortal form.

Angels and demons don't really have a body. If they took away heaven and hell-issues bodies—he preferred the heaven ones, since they were less of everything hell was, mostly unsanitary—both species were just a mass of cosmic energy. Though depending on the power and weight they held was relative to how powerful they were as an angel, from before they fell. And well, he had a lot of that, him.

Today, they stand and watch as the the sun rises from the horizon, like some dramatic scene of a performance. The orange-golden light reflects against their skin and he turns to the plump angel, who has yet to acknowledge his presence other than by the tilt of his head when he had slithered up the wall of Eden.

Other than the imagination he held to create unique planets, solar systems, and the stars that has twinkled in the nights, he or, rather,  _Raphael_  was rather lacking in the name department. Alpha Centauri had been one of his best works, in both constructing it and naming it, if he would say so himself, and he  _does_. Though... now that he was facing the dilemma of naming himself, or his new self, he was having some trouble.

He grimaced silently.

"Aziraphael." The angel spoke first, gracing him with  _thy_ name and he sighs, a source of melancholy just swimming through him. The now-demon, fully ingrained into his role and fully running away from what his duties now are, stares at the angel which bares a part of his past name and smiles a brittle and thin smile.  _(What is anything, but a sum of ones memories?)_

It did puzzle him why the angel shared his name to a demon, but he didn't wonder for long. He didn't care enough about it for the question to stick.

Then, the angel pulled a face of worry and conflict again, which seemed to be his trademark—worrying and fretting that was. "Though, maybe I should change it to something else? What if the Archangel Raphael comes and smite me down for dirtying his name?" He continued and the demon snorts.

"I—" Well, he couldn't really introduced himself as the fallen  _fucking_ Archangel that Heavens been trying to find for years now, could he? He smiles thinly and replies in the heat of the moment a name he would really hate in a couple seconds.

"Crawly." He saids and then cringes. Nah, Crawly wasn't really don't it... it was all squirming-at-your-feet-ish. But, it stuck.

Or it did, for a while.

Aziraphael stares at him quizzically and he sighs, "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, will you? It's been a few years and well, having nobody there doesn't really give you a reason to come up with a new name after you've lost your old one," He mumbled, if a bit remorseful.

Aziraphael gives him an almost pitying look and he turns his head to the other side. Say what you will, but he still had his pride, if a little blasted beyond repairs, by the Almighty.

"I'm not too sure about you, though," the now-dubbed Crawly casually commented, "I don't think Raphael wouldn't mind. After all, nobody's really seen him in a while, have they?"

"I'm sure he's still around, creating some nebulas or, well something," Aziraphael gives him a nervous laugh in reply, but he sounded like he was trying to convince himself from such a reason for Raphael's absence, like... oh I don't know,  _falling_?

"Uh huh," Crawly gave him an unconvinced look, after all he should know where Raphael is.  _Right. Here_. Though, seeing the uncomfortable look that the angel was shooting him, Crawly let it go and changed the subject.

_(Somewhere in his head, he noted that the angel didn't just smite him as he slithered onto the wall of Eden.)_

 

* * *

 

Crawly— _Ugh, he really needed to change his name_ —had escaped the clutches of Hell expertly. Not that he was boasting, but his perks that came with being a Archangel, though fallen, had still aided him well.  _And,_ those perks had also aided him in slithering in and out of Hell, just to gather information about what his idiot, and satanic  _since, that was a word now_ , was playing at.

Apparently the end of the world, if something about the creation of the Antichrist was in the daily talks and compliments to their  _lord_. Crawly gives a full body shiver in disgust.  _Disgusting_. Ugh, fucking  _gross_ , he didn't need to hear or ever think of his brother procreating.

Still, the plans of an Antichrist was in the works and Crawly was going to throw Hell, and specifically that gaudy throne room, into a black hole. He didn't  _want_ to fight. He  _hates_ fighting, he was the Angel of Healing—and questioning trivial things, hadn't gotten him kicked out, but questioning why they had to fight, why they had to follow her stupid plan without a word of notice of what that even even  _was_ got him burned and dumped into Hell. Crawly can safely say, he hates all of that shit.

Yet, where they're heading down now, Crawly wouldn't have a hand in shaping it, since his decision to run away from Hell before it was fully established hadn't given him a link with it, aside from being a demon and well, Heaven didn't even  _know_ he fell. Just away and unresponsive, like the Almighty. Not so slimy old demon, who didn't want to be a demon.

Pathetic.

 

* * *

 

_If he was being at all serious, Raphael had almost expect his brother to be the fall. So headstrong, defiant, burning so brightly and self-centered upon his warmth shine. Angels flocked to him, but Raphael could guess that it was what humans would come around to call "the wrong crowd."_

_Still, he hadn't care—or maybe he was careless, because he had hung out with them anyways. Younger brother, naive Raphael, who never wanted to fall, but had just hung around the wrong angels and asked too many questions._

_He remembered, how Samael fell and it struck a chord across all of Heaven. Sure, falling wasn't a concept, until one did it, and Raphael had half the mind to just hope that the first that fell wasn't his brother and just some low level angel, unhappy with their post in Heaven, had rebelled. Instead, it was the brightest of them all, an Archangel that fell and then half of the force of Heaven fell alongside him._

_Raphael remembered as She took him, the sight of her corporal, mortal and what would be human form glancing at him with some form of scrutiny. She had ordered and spoke about the creation of humans, of the first two humans and her big apple tree. The Tree of Knowledge which would allow them to be aware._

_She hadn't known at the time, or maybe she did, that he would use that to unleash "Pandora's Box" on all of humanity in the incoming years. Still, as war raged on in Heaven, the first war of all wars, God had been tucked away, higher than any of them, and had set to work on the mortal, uncaring if his siblings, her children killed themselves._

_So, he questioned her, asked her, defied her second-handed teachings, because why? Why did she allow that? Why would she let it happen? Why wasn't she here?_

_He asked too many questions, maybe, he just had asked questions that questioned her authority. Questions were fine, like the trivial ones like, "where is the armory in heaven located at?" Yet, he had asked to question her decisions and her reasoning. It was a little short of going against her, like Samael did and he got casted out too._

 

* * *

 

They met again, at 3004 B.C in Mesopotamia. The demon known to us as Crawly slinks in to stand beside Aziraphael as the angel watches the gigantic ship and all the animals that were climbing on with something akin to dissent and worry. Crawley stares at it before taking note of it and brushing it away. At least some angels weren't strictly running on their programming. Or maybe, it was just this one.  _Interesting_.

He doesn't state long, at all, before a grin is plastered on his face, half-fake and half-not-at-all-fake. "Hello, there Aziraphael," He greeted with cheer as the angel turned to give him a glance of acknowledgement.

"Crawley," the angel returns and Crawley cringes at the name.

"So..." He trailed off, "Giving the mortals a flaming sword, how did that go down with the head office?"

" _She_ asked once," Aziraphael relented and Crawley gives the angel a wide-eye look. God had  _interacted_ with somebody?

Then quickly he added, "Then, she never spoke about it again and I was removed from my post as Guard of the East Gate." The tips of his ears were red.

Crawley gives a snort of laughter before the sound of an Elephant's scream distracts him. The demon looks back at the thing at hand and he scrunches his nose up in confusion.  _Ineffability_ , he mocked.

"What's this all about? Building a big boat and fill it up with a traveling zoo?" He asked, an eyebrow quirked up at the angel, who sighed, looking resigned, but not in agreement with the decision the Almighty made. Crawley grins inwardly at the sign of defiance.

"From what I hear, She's gotten a bit tetchy," Aziraphael explained and Crawley's face twists in distaste. "Wiping out the human race. Big storm."

" _All_ of them?" He stressed.  _So much for your most precious creation._

"Just the locals," Aziraphael had gestured around and Crawley had craned his head to look at the gathering made of humans, who were about to be doomed.

"I don't believe that She's upset with the Chinese or the Native Americans." he amended, them added on quickly, as if it were to help his case, "Or the Australians

"Yet," Crawley finishes tersely.

Aziraphael, the naive angel he was, flashed Crawley was what suppose to be a reassuring smile.  _Why would you even want to reassure a demon, in the first place?_

"Well, God's not gonna wipe out all the locals," He said, looking up at the large ship as animals started to fill the boat, "I mean... Noah's up there, with his family, his sons and their wives. They're going to be fine."

Crawley stood and looked at the Principality with a raised eyebrow, "But, She's drowning everybody else?" He wryly pointed out.

 _Well_ , he couldn't claim to be a saint, since he wasn't anymore, his displeasure at the Almighty, and rather churning hatred, had grown as he saw unaware children running around, still full of joy. He cringed, once again questioning the Almighty as he turned back to the round angel, who looked crestfallen.

"Not the kids," He hissed, "You  _can't_ kill kids!"

_(Raphael was always a bit too soft for an Archangel.)_

Yet, Aziraphael still nodded with a resigned expression and he stared at the Noah's Ark, honest-to-god,  _horrified_.  _He was a healer— and these people— they— Her, She— why do you do this?_

He didn't comment and Aziraphael took his mortified silence to be judging, and it  _was_. "Well—when this is all over, she's going to put up this new thing called a 'rain-bow' as a promise not to drown anyone again." He awkwardly sounded out the word with  _skepticism_  and a bit of trouble.

Crawley couldn't blame him, he wasn't used to creating and thinking of new concepts, being connected to the time stream and forever following it. His corporal form's tongue would soon commit the word to memory, but for now, the little angel was still fresh towards the notion of a "rainbow."

"How  _kind_ ," He drawled with sarcasm and Aziraphael shoots him a look.

"You can't judge the Almighty, Crawley." He admonished and something bitter bubbles from him.  _You don't think I know that?_ He almost bit out, but looked away, and sighed.

"Gods plans are—"

"—Are you going to say  _ineffable_ ," He finished with dryness that could rival the desert around them.

The angel that shared parts of his past name had looked forward, a slight guilty expression on his face for the repetition, Crawley now undoubtedly knowing that it was Gabriel who shoved such shit inside the principality— _ex-_ principality's _head._

"Possibly," he muttered.

Crawley looks ahead too and sees one of the horned horses, a Unicorn, slowly trot away with disinterest.  _Well_ , children of the future, now you know why you don't have unicorns in your time and such a thing would only be rendered to be a myth, a fairy tale. There wasn't enough unicorns for them to pass down little ones.

" _OI_ —SHEM! That unicorn's going to make a run for it!" He shouted before quieting with silent mirth. "Oh, it's too late! Well, you've still got one of them!"

The angel and demon pair stared silently as the animals filled the ship, the humans shouting and the storm cometh. They both looked on in the distance, drawn on their wings, or rather on Crawley's part, forced them to flutter and fly, even as they burned at his body, unused to being used, as Death had consumed the humans who hadn't had the luxury to escape.

The healer inside of Crawley,  _Raphael_ had cried in loud grief. Crawley has clenched his jaw tightly, and tried to ignore it. It didn't help that he agreed with the fallen Archangel, nor did it help that he  _was_ the fallen Archangel.

Semantics.

 

* * *

 

He decided to change his name, anew, if only a bit. You can't go more new than transitioning painfully from angel to demon.

Crowley, it was then.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the hell am I doing?


	4. teenage angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when in doubt, threaten your brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I ask again, though unanswered, what the hell am I writing? Perhaps future me would know...

It wasn't long before the ground had cracked open, infernal fires lighting the ground up and charring it. Crowley, a name he had agreed upon that wasn't something so  _blegh_  like Crawley was, had fell into the depths of Hell again, landing on his back with an  _oof_ and cracking the spine of the his right wing with his corporal form's weight.

He gave a pained wheeze, hurried to his feet and quickly set to heal the bone in quick and precise movements, like he had done so for a millennia. He had. For longer than that, but he had. A healer, Raphael was called.

"Oh, brother, I see you've yet to let up on your healing abilities," Lucifer's obnoxious voice carrier over, and Crowley had scowled before folding his wings back.

"Crowley." He shortly said, jaw grinding together.  _All the time, I just want to punch you in your perfect teeth_ , he muttered darkly in thought and Lucifer barked out a laugh, no doubt, hearing his thought.

"You've never won, before," He commented and Crowley rolls his eyes.

"I'm not one to fight like some bullheaded animal," He replies, terse.

Lucifer scoffs, "You were never one to fight, at all. The esteemed Healer, they called you. Raphael, the Archangel of  _Healing_ ," He mocked.

Crowley bristles, "Is this all you have to say? Open a buttcrack on the crust of the earth just to send me falling back down into Hell to  _mock_ me?" Not to mention his wing.

"Oh, don't think too poorly of yourself... Crowley," He tested and face twisting into something akin of acceptance at the name. It did seem dark and brooding, everything a demon should be.

"But, I did call you to integrate you into Hell, now that it has an order and they  _do_ know who to follow," Lucifer grinned and Crowley backed away, already about to flutter his wings open from his back and fly the  _fuck out of here_.

" _No_ , brother! I will not—You can't force me to go with your whims, I—"

"— _You_ fell brother, you fell and you were on the road to falling with your obsessive questioning.  _Raphael_ , you fell. And now, you're mine. You  _fell_ , dear ol'  _Dad_ didn't want you anymore and He casted you away into my domain and now you're  _mine_!" He roared, corporal form shifting into mortal form, eyes flashing demonic red as he stared at Crowley.

"No, no, you don't get to do that! Wasn't that why you rebelled, you didn't want to follow his orders and now you're tying to impossssse them onto  _me_?  _Sssamael_ ," He hissed, forked tongue once again reminding him that it existed in his biology, " _You_  don't get to do that!"

His outburst was short, but he delivered what he wanted. Crowley looked away. "I didn't mean to fall," he muttered, "I just... sauntered vaguely downwards."

"I'm  _done_ , okay?" He commented, almost tiredly, and oh, so  _very_ yearning to be back up in space, where the darkness had surrounded his brightness, where he birthed stars and nebulas at the tips of his fingers, and ignored the troubles of Heaven, if only, just for a little bit.

"I can't, and I won't fight in your little spat with Heaven, and Michael and fucking Gabriel. I don't want to take part in your temper tantrum," he said, "Either you can take it or leave it."

"You fell into the place I am the ruler of, Crowley," Lucifer finally stated, a bit pacified, "You don't get to decide that.  _I do_."

Crowley stares at the human form of Lucifer, a very textbook definition of tall, dark and brooding— _oh,_ sorry,  _handsome, blegh_ —and smiled maliciously, embracing his nature at a demon, if only for a bit.  _(He did think of the interesting little angel named Aziraphael, though. Who had followed God's "plan" and orders to the T, only to disobey them a second later. He was interesting, but there really wasn't anything to keep him here, perhaps a visit to Alpha Centauri and he'd be gone.)_

"I guess," Crowley shrugged, shoulders loosening in faux-comfort, "But, you don't get to decide if somebody  _offs_ themselves, do you? Burning away the corporal body, which holds the cosmic energy into a physical form, and then burning of the celestial energy into nothing, but a speck and trace that proved that something was there?"

Lucifer stares at his brother, who was always such a pacifist, a healer, and no where as daring as the demon before him. "You're bluffing, you wouldn't do that." He stated, almost afraid. 

"There is nothing for me here,  _brother_ ," He mocked, "Nothing. Zip,  _nadda_. Not you, not Michael, or Gabriel and certainly, not God."

"Perhaps," he added, nonchalant, "It'd be even better to get away from this, not having to care—not having to do anything at all. I might have been protecting and nurturing life, away from Death, brother, but I am not afraid of it."

So, he inches forward, a strand of flaming, red hair falling over his face as he looked at the  _bastard_ of a brother with his serpent eyes,  _daring_ and smiles at the devil himself.

"Take it, or  _leave it_."

_(He'd also be proud to say that it was his first deal as a demon. And preferably, what counted as his last.)_

 

* * *

 

_Ting!_

A hammer slammed down on metal nails which secured the metal around Jesus. He cried out in pain and Crowley winced.

"Father, please," He begged, only to be cut off by a pained noise he wheezed out from his throat. Crowley cringed.

"You have to forgive them..." He uttered and Crowley felt utterly bitter about that, " _Ah_ —They do not know what they're doing!"

In 33 A.D. where Jesus was currently being hung, like a sacrificial lamb across a cross made of wood, Crowley turned up beside Aziraphael and frowned. "Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?" He inquired, seeing as the angel was  _everywhere_ that was considered important in mankind's history.

"Smirk?" Aziraphael repeated, " _Me_?"

He sounded almost offended he would so such a  _sinful_ thing. Crowley rolled his eyes. Classic, textbook and very much brainwashed little angel.

"Well," he muttered, "Your lot put him on there."

"I'm not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley," Aziraphael said tightly, sounding pained at the display and Crowley's eyebrows furrowed.

"Oh," he said, because  _yeah_ , it's been a long while,  _hello_ Aziraphael, "I've changed it—my name, that is."

"Craw-ly," he continued, shuddering at the name, now that he was no longer Crawley, "It wasn't really doing it for me... bit too squirming-at-your-feet-ish."

"Well," Aziraphael said, "You  _were_ a snake."

Then, the angel continued, a bit mocking— _if_ not a bit teasing. "So," He continued, "What is it now? Asmodeus? Mephistopheles?"

"Crowley," he said shortly and Aziraphael's face took a considering look and he nodded.

"Mm," He made a sound half-crossed between agreement that the name had fit him, and that it wasn't as bad or dramatic as he thought it would be.

They looked on as Jesus was pitifully hammered onto the cross, and winced in unison. "Did you ever meet him?" Aziraphael asked, nudging his head at the man and Crowley sighed, almost wistfully.

"Yeah."

"Seemed like a very bright young man." He added and Crowley hummed noncommittally.

"I showed him all the kingdoms of the world," he admitted, not at all guilty.

"Why?"

"He's a carpenter from Galilee, his travel opportunities were limited," Crowley stated.  _And that he wanted too, it was his wish. And Crowley gave it, even as it burned at his essence, as he defied what he became, as a little demonic intervention, that just looked a bit too much like a miracle, perhaps to spite the Almighty or his brother, who knows._

A hammer was placed above the man's wrist, right across his vein, where a nail hovered over. The hammer slammed down viciously and the nail had embedded itself into the man's wrist, like hot knife over butter. Crowley hissed between his teeth in sympathy at the blood which was quick to seep out. 

"Oooh," he muttered between his clenched teeth, "That  _has_ got to hurt."

Aziraphael looked very displeased at the gore. "What was it that he said that got everybody so upset?" Crowley asked.

"Be kind to each other," the angel quoted grimly and Crowley cringed. _Humans._

"Oh, yeah." He agreed with another hiss, "That'll do it."

With a finally nail, and cries of agony, of pain, the naked man had been pinned down onto the cross and was hefted up, as sign and symbol, to  _not be kind to each other_. Crowley and Raphael alike, blanched in disgust.

 

* * *

 

In Rome, just shy of eight years after the the pining-Jesus-on-a-cross, or well, the crucifying of him, Crowley sits inside a bar, nursing a jug of what the humans had called  _mead_. It ran into his blood stream and poisoned it until he couldn't think clearly and everything blurred together like a mess of colors, just uglier than a nebula's combination of colors. Or until he has miracled away the alcohol in his system and back into the cup. 

Perhaps it should have been stopped at  _Crowley sits inside a bar_. That sounded like a bad joke just  _waiting_ to happen. Though, what happened years before, when he had healed children had led him into seeking out sunglasses, shades that covered his eyes just enough for them to be unseeable. They were more like tiny little googles, though. Not at all fashionable, but it was what he had during this time. He couldn't really pop across the twenty-first century, steal a pair of designer shades and come back to follow the course of time. That would get him killed.  _Like Jesus,_ his mind added traitorously.

"What have you got?" He asked—the germs of this century would be burned away in his system anyways, "Give me a jug of whatever you think is drinkable."

_(The cup that he held was suspiciously alike of mead, in coloration, but it wasn't mead. Crowley would never tell if asked.)_

"Crawley—" Aziraphael's voice drifted before cutting off and correcting himself as Crowley turned around, " _Crowley_?"

He gave a small twitch of the lips. "Hello, Aziraphael," He greeted and Aziraphael winced.

"Yeah..." He trailed off, "Been thinking since the Garden, like you said before. Well, decided to change my name. Still felt like Raphael, somewhere in the universe, was going to come down and strike me dead if I ever sullied his name."

Crowley huffs out a breathless laugh, overly amused at the little angel.  _Oh, Angel, you have got no idea._ He mused and smirked, looking at the angel who had still had that perpetual worried feeling around him.

"So, what's it now?"

"Aziraphale," He commented, a small smile on his face, cheeks flushed in contentment and Crowley looked away.

_(It did suit him.)_

"So," Aziraphale smiles, "Still a demon then?"

Crowley whips his head around, unmindful of the Roman Bartender that had just set down two jugs of whatever he had just ordered and flashed an offended expression at the angel. " _Still a demon?_ " He repeated, indignant.

"What else am I gonna be—an _aardvark_?"

Aziraphale grasps one of his jugs and he scowls as the angel brings the cup up, "Salutria," He grinned and they clinked glasses.

Crowley looked at the angel from the corner of his eye, head tucked into the jug as he rolled his eyes.  _Bastard_ , he thought, if not fondly and gulped down the mead.

"In Rome long?" Aziraphale asked between his sip.

"Just nipped in for a quick temptation," He confessed,  _then I'll be heading back onto Alpha Centauri with my goats and my little mud hut._ He didn't have either of those, but Crowley did visit Alpha Centauri recently, if only to get away from his revenge-hungry and still angry brother.

 _I guess the suicide threat really did get to him._ Crowley mused silently before turning to Aziraphale, who was like a haystack in a pile of needles, with his clean, white robes and his curly, white hair. "You?" He asked, just out of courtesy, and not at all curious.

"I thought I'd try Petronius' new restaurant!" The angel enthusiastically answered, already grinning at the idea, "I hear he does remarkable things to oysters."

Crowley eyes him, "I've never eaten an oyster, before," He commented nonchalant and very much so, innocently.

"Oh," Aziraphale sounds almost offended by his existence, before smiling, "Well, let me tempt you to—"

He cuts off abruptly as Crowley turns, emitting waves of smugness and victory.  _You hear that Heaven? You hear that, Creator?_ He smirks, leaning back as Aziraphale hurried to correct himself.

"Oh, oh no," He muttered quickly, "That's your job, isn't it?"

Crowley grins. "So, what was it about taking me to eat Oysters?" He asked and Aziraphale, while wary, had quickly dragged him off. He couldn't say he liked it.

But, Crowley didn't say he  _didn't_ like it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay. A bunch of updates, in like, a day.


	5. angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale and crowley through the years, cont.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahah, I don't like the start of this chapter.

In 537 A.D. where both Aziraphale and Crowley were knights, though only Crowley was aware of their shared status, had met by a damp flatland, filled with fog. The fog hadn't really covered his sight, with his new demon vision and he could see the gaudy appearance of the White Knight of the  _Round Table_  slowly penguin-walk towards him and his entourage of not very educated allies.

"Hello?" Undoubtedly, that was the angel's voice, and Crowley grins before behind his helmet. He  _was_ just floating around the Orion Nebula, something he had created back then, before deciding to peak into the human world that Aziraphale had been enthralled in, which led him here.

"I am, Sir Aziraphale of the  _Table Round_ , am here to speak to the Black Knight."

He slowly gets to his feet and curses the metal contraption.  _Honestly_ , all he could do is waddle slowly and pitifully forward, hoping that the fog would slowly ease into his appearance, making it look less lame. His voice comes out in a mocking growl, very deep and gravelly.

"You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one—but you have found your death!" He announced dramatically,  _flash bastard,_ no doubt and a look of apprehension passes across Aziraphale's face at his voice.

His eyes narrow and he tilts his head. "Is that you under there, Crawley?" Aziraphale asked, brows furrowed and Crowley, was just a smidge, just a  _smudge_ disgruntled that he was the only one who remembered their new names.

" _Crowley_ ," He corrected, a bit crossed as he lifted up his stuffy helmet. Crawley was just  _not_ his thing—

"What are you playing at?" The angel demands and Crowley turns, waving off the humans behind him.

"It's alright lads," he assured, "I know him—he's alright."

Then, he turns back, shrugging, "I'm not really doing anything, just a bit bored." He replied honestly, since he wasn't really spreading  _ferment_ as in chaos and death, since that was just, not him, and he didn't have a head office to report to, with Lucifer letting him off.

_(He was still very wary and sour of the suicide declaration. Crowley is hoping it'd stick around until Lucifer had the stick shoved up his ass pulled out or well, if push comes to shove, killed.)_

"So, you're not here causing dissent and discord?" Aziraphale cocks an eyebrow at him, tone also very wary of how at ease he was.

Crowley scowls, "Just because I'm a demon doesn't mean that all I do is spread evil. That's like saying angels have halos and have golden wings, and also sing, or that demons have horns and poke people with pitchforks."

"We do  _not_ have halos or  _sing_ ," Aziraphale retorted, looking like he were to cross his arms and harrumph if he were able to, without looking undignified. You can't do that and look dignified—so, he didn't.

"Yeah, not those  _celestial harmonies_?" Crowley stated, mockingly, before adding on, "Well, we don't have pitchforks or horns. So, let's just agree to  _agree_."

Crowley stares at the fur cloak and he feels slightly underdressed. That cloak  _does_ make Aziraphale look more regal. He purses his lips.

"So, what are you doing here? Fomenting peace and tranquility, by King Arthur's name?" He sarcastically said, waving his hand about.

"Why, indeed, I am."

Crowley looks at him dryly, "You know I  _am_ wearing the armor of the Black Knight, meaning I  _did_ have to spread some chaos and discord to be here, right?" He asked, noting how the angel assumed he hasn't caused any death yet, which he  _hadn't_ , but he wasn't going to let the little angel know that.

"Really?"

"Yeah," Crowley responded, drawling and sounding drier than a man starved of water, "You  _do_ know that we're just working very,  _very_ hard to cancel each other in... damp places, right?"

Aziraphale looked around, as if finally aware of the terrain they were on. "It  _is_ a bit damp," He admitted.  _And very humid._

Crowley smirked from underneath his helmet, "It'd be easier if we both stayed home," He suggested casually, and not that Hell was a home, he'd probably just take refuge on Alpha Centauri, or Gallifrey, if those stuck up Gallifreyans won't try to blast him again as he went sky-watching.

Aziraphale looked appalled that he'd even suggest it. "You can just... send back some messages to your head office saying that you've done it. They won't even notice with how even we've been," Crowley added.

"They'd check!" Aziraphale said and Crowley shrugged.

"And, Michael  _is_ a bit of a stickler," Aziraphale admitted, and Crowley knows full well of how bad Michael can get.

_("What are you doing, brother?" Raphael asked, horrified as the Archangel Michael had led angels, cherubs, seraphims—everybody that wasn't under Samael to subjugation._

_Michael didn't reply, and instead had watched as either old angels had been brainwashed or new angels that has been birthed after the war be indoctrinated. A sick feeling settled into Raphael's metaphorical stomach and he flew, away from Michael and sought out to the Almighty._

_Surely, she must be aware? Surely, she could do something to fix this?_

_She didn't. She wasn't even there—Raphael had mutely realized she left, and all he could do was scream into the dark, enraged and start spiraling downwards.)_

"Oh," Aziraphale sighed, wincing, making him snap back into reality, "You don't want Gabriel to get upset with you."

Crowley snorts, "That little firecracker? What's he done to make you guys follow him?" The second he said that, he paused and looked away, feeling a sense of deja vu at the bile that metaphorically raised up his throat.  _Brainwashing, that's what._

"You shouldn't badmouth him, he's the Archangel Gabriel!" Aziraphale reprimanded and Crowley huffs, amused.

"Though... He  _is_ a bit insufferable," the angel admitted and Crowley's gaze snaps up, his interest boosting by the minute and the demon smiles widely as the angel realized what he said. "Don't tell him I said that!"

"Like he'd give me a chance to say anything if we ever meet." Crowley stated.

_(He would be wrong. Gabriel would be too indignant that an eleven-year-old brat wouldn't start the end of the world, so that the Heaven and Hell could start their pissing contest. As it turns out, Samael—Lucifer didn't even care.)_

Aziraphale silently agrees, but then remembers what they were disagreeing about and scowls. Crowley silently thinks that it looks more like a pout, but he keeps that to himself and grins widely.

"As long as they get paperwork in and you seem to be doing  _something_ , they'll keep quiet and let you go on your merry little way," Or at least that was how he worked, and it's worked for him before he fell. Though, that might be because he was an Archangel.  _(Turns out, he never even filled paperwork. He didn't need to.)_

"No!" Aziraphale yelled, the first of his many rejections to Crowley's suggestions— _read, not temptation, suggestions_ —and turns around to his noble steed. "Absolutely not! I am  _shocked_ you'd even imply such a thing! We are  _not_ having this conversation, not another word."

With that, he climbs onto the white horse, and slowly trots away, leaving Crowley, who stares, like  _what the fuck, man._ Crowley throws up his arms, shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

"Come on lads, we got something more interesting to do," He comments, walks back into the mist, snaps his finger together and erases himself from their memories.

Then, he spreads his wings out, now responsive after many, many decades of use, and flies out 250 million light-years away from Earth. The jet black coloring and the rougher feathers... they weren't half bad.

 

* * *

 

His leg hurts, his ass hurts and his ego hurts. Though, not as much as the giant snow globe that housed the Capitol had been. He was sure there was a Crowley-shapes home in there as he escaped, thanks to a little upstart Gallifreyan who was a bit like a rebel. The little one reminded him of Aziraphale, yet not at the same time.

But, he mourned for the loss of the snow-capped slopes and mountains, the red grass and the silver trees, that would look like a forest fire in the mornings, shone on by their twin suns. Crowley sighs, disappointed.

Perhaps, he could try to visit again, if their Lord President would stop being such a fucking asshole. Perhaps he could try to sneak in a little temptation for him to be impeached.

He sighed again, and turned from the planet and flew away from the star system of Kasterborous. Perhaps next time.

 

* * *

 

Crowley walks up to the wooden gate, pushing, only to scowl in annoyance as he realized that it was one of those  _pull-not-push-door_ moments. He blamed it all on the demons, who were eager to see unrest among the human world before smoothing out his expression. He pulled at the gate and it opens easily.

Crowley rolls his eyes.  _Architectural genius, the Globe Theatre._ His hands cross behind his back as he makes his way to Aziraphale and looks over him with their difference in height. He strokes at the little goatee he acquired through other means than growing it, and looks at the lack of audience, aside from Aziraphale and a couple humans with all the time on their hand.  _Oh, it's one of the gloomy ones?_

"Ugh," he groans beside the angel, "I thought you said we'd be inconspicuous here, blend among the crowd."

"Well, that was the idea," Aziraphale trailed off and Crowley rolled his eyes.

"Please don't tell me this is one of those gloomy ones, is it?" He asked and cringed, "No wonder nobody is here."

Aziraphale glanced at the author, who skipped his way towards the occult—ethereal pair and shushed him. Crowley spares the author a glance and rolls his eyes, scoffing.  _Lord knows we've had enough tragedy for a millennia._

_(He's never forgot the 14th century.)_

Crowley's face twists in distaste at the thought and he forces himself to pay attention. "And What does your friend think?" The actor, player,  _whatever_ had asked, curtly and Aziraphale snaps his head to stare at Crowley, alarmed.

Crowley grins obnoxiously at the annoyed man, flashing his  _pearly whites_.

"Oh—he's not my friend."

 _Well, I'll be damned,_ He thought, grin losing it shine, if only just a bit.  _Since beginning of the Earth and we're not friends? Tough crowd._

"I think you should get on with the play," He replied, aloud and a little harsher than necessary.

_(He walks out of the Globe Theatre later, a little hurt, in more than one way, and performs a miracle which burns at his demonic nature._

_Suddenly, there's an influx of people willing to watch Hamlet._

_If he stuck around, he would have seen Aziraphale's lips crack into a beaming smile. But, at least he's not going to Scotland on a horse.)_

 

* * *

 

The arrangement, so important that it should be said with a capital A, so,  _Arrangement_ had been formed somewhere around 1030-1020. The Arrangement, as Crowley had so eloquently put it as, had been just a non-violence pact between the two supernatural beings to stay out of each other's way.

The Arrangement, was just a way for Crowley to keep an eye on the rebelling angel. Not that Aziraphale would come to know.

But, then again, Aziraphale didn't know much about Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. I don't like the whole chapter, at all. Oh well. ;-;  
> It is shorter than usual and shittier than Gabriel.


	6. treat you to a spot of lunch?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale had just wanted to crepes. And, Crowley had just wanted some Holy Water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update, because, the last one felt like a filler.

The next time they had saw each other was when Aziraphale was about to be decapitated. Crowley had dryly filed away at how common it was to see that the angel had a penchant for meddling and trouble. Though as he materialized and melded into the darkness of the room, watching as Aziraphale stiffly sat on the wooden stool, back might by the sunlight escaping into the dungeon. His hands were shackled by chains, thick metal clasping his wrist.

 _Kinky_.

Crowley winced as he heard people cheer and the guillotine fall. Really, he  _really_ wasn't as much of a pacifist, and clearly not a healer anymore, but death for enjoyment, while great for demons, was not him. Not that he was a good demon to began with.

The iron door rattled as it opens, creaking even and a rather heavy man walks in, smug. Crowley's lips curl in displeasure. Clearly this was the one that engineered the guillotine. Or a user of it.

He speaks French, a tongue that Crowley  _should_ have learn, lest he station himself on Earth and hadn't gone galaxy hopping as much as he did. But, he didn't. So, he understand nothing. And, clearly, Aziraphale hadn't either, with his choppy pronunciations and his struggle to grasp at the words.

"I speak English," at least the bastard wasn't as  _terrible_ as before and Aziraphale sags almost in relief. Trouble in communication could get him discorporated, and that'd be terrible—he didn't want to face the paperwork. Or Gabriel.

"Listen to that," he rasped gleefully at the recent scream of terror, "The fall of the guillotine blade. Is it not terrible?"

"Yes," Aziraphale leans to look at the round man, sarcasm light on his tone.  _Crowley is so proud of him. Look at my Angel go, grasping at other things than obedience._ "Cutting off that poor woman's head!  _Terrible_."

"It is Pierre—an amateur. Always letting go of the rope too soon!" He chastised, before smiling with excitement. "But, you are lucky, as it is I, Jean Claude, who will remove your traitorous head from your shoulders."

Aziraphale looks pleadingly at the man. "Look, this is all a terrible mistake," He saids, exasperated. "I don't think you understand—"

"I have good news for you," Jean Claude cuts off, " _You_ are the 999th aristo to die at the guillotine by my hand—but the first English."

Aziraphale flashes a pained smile as the man goes to remove his neck scarf-tie- _thing_ — _ugh, sixteenth century fashion,_ Crowley rolls his eyes—and the angel jumps up, moving away.

"No! Dreadful mistake, discorporating me," He muttered before slightly melodramatically, yet still annoyed all the same, "Oh, it'll be a complete nightmare."

He even rolled his eyes.  _Crowley is so proud._ They did say that Rome was not built in a day. But, destroying Rome? Oh, that would take less than a day. He was willing to invest himself into the angel, who was different from the rest.

The sound of the guillotine falling and the crowd cheering distracts the man as he turns, ecstatic at the machine. Then, Crowley quietly freezes time around them, something he's always been able to do at the touch of a finger, the privilege as a constructor of the universe, which he retained.

"Animals," Aziraphale sighed.

"Animals don't kill each other with clever machines, angel," Crowley drawls, comfortably-uncomfortably resting against the window of the cell. "Only humans do that."

He would lie that he didn't feel warm at the elated expression that Aziraphale had as the angel turned around with a smile on his face and whispers, "Crowley!"

The demon flashes a smirk in return before seeing the state he was dressed in. The angel clicks his tongue in exasperation, rolls his eyes and sighs.

"Oh, good lord."

"Yeah, and what in the deuces are you doing? Locked up in Bastille?" He questioned, crossing his arms, "I thought you were opening a book shop."

"Well, I was," Aziraphale answered, then a guilty expression passed his face, before coming back and camping there. "I got peckish."

" _Peckish_?" Crowley repeated, in a more incredulous tone.

" _Well_ , if you must know—it was the crepes!" He scowled, a clear appreciator of the art of food. "You can't get decent ones anywhere,  _but_ Paris."

He sits down on the stool again, before tilting his head in acknowledgment of something. "And the brioche," he added, as if it was going to make everything all better.

"So, you just popped across the Channel during a revolution because you wanted something to nibble on?" He asked, always dry in tone and expression when dealing with the angel. Then, he gestured at the clothing.

"Dressed like that?"

"I have standards!" Aziraphale countered, taking a quick peak at Crowley's new, dark attire, before looking up at the demon again, "I'd heard they were getting a bit carried away over here, but—"

"Yeah," He hummed, mockingly and jerked his head towards the outside, where people were just getting their heads chopped off, "This is  _not_ getting carried away. This is cutting off a lot of people's heads very efficiently with a big head-cutting machine."

Then, a troubled and irked expression passed Crowley's face. "Why didn't you just perform another miracle and go home?" He asked, a bit airily and Aziraphale looks down, a lot more guilty than before, like a child getting caught with their hand deep in the cookie jar.

"I was reprimanded last month."

Crowley responses with a blank look and Aziraphale continued, if not grimly. "They said I'd performed too many frivolous miracles." He continued, a bit offended that they were considered  _frivolous_ of all things. It was  _food_.

Crowley silently agreed with the Angel's up in Heaven, if not grudgingly that food didn't really hold much value, unless it was alcohol.  _(He'd go on and say that this statement was empty and absolved and food was not without value, if it got Aziraphale this excited about it. He'd admit that it wasn't that bad. The pears were just absolutely disgusting though.)_

"Got a strong word from Gabriel," Aziraphale muttered, drawling it out.

"Well," Crowley said between clenched teeth and mocking the angel's tone, "You're very lucky I'm in the area."

Some would say that it was looking out for a friend. Others called it stalking. Crowley called it around the area and is not peeping in, no, siree,  _no_.

"Well," The angel sighed, grudgingly agreeing. "I suppose I am."

Then, he looked over at Crowley, suspicion rolling off of him in waves. "Then... what are you doing here?" He carefully said.

Crowley smiles big and wide and very much so fake, "Oh just, you know. Heard from some below that Paris was doing a outstanding job serving their Lord, and well, I just had to go check out what Paris was doing," He admitted.

What he didn't admit to, was he was going to perform some demonic intervention... and let the guillotine just pop out of existence. Nobody has to know.

"Wait—then this is your demonic work?"

"What, no," Crowley's voice recoiled at the mere idea, "The humans, which you've been preaching about, have been thinking up little clever killing machines themselves. Nothing to do with  _me_."

He took high offense to it before sighing and letting one of his hands fly up with a snap. The shackles fall off Aziraphale's wrist with ease and the angel rubs his wrists, giving a small, smug smile in return.  _Bastard,_ Crowley thinks good-naturedly and rolls his eyes.

"Well," The angel relented airily, "I suppose I should say thank you... for the, uh, rescue."

Crowley immediately gets up from his position, nearing Aziraphale with almost a sneer. "Don't say that," He hissed. If word got out that he helped, it could distress his position as a wondering supernatural entity, not at all connected to Lucifer or Hell.

"Your lot may have sent a little note, but my lot does not send rude notes."  _Something on the lines of torture, the last time he was around, which was when he threatened Lucifer._

His lips stretched thin. "Well, anyway, I'm very grateful," Aziraphale said and Crowley let's a small smirk encompass his lips, something he did more than smiling nowadays.

"What if I buy you lunch?" He suggested, almost peeking up at the idea and Crowley, he just, couldn't deny that. He sighed through his nose and gestured at the clothing.

"Looking like that?"

Aziraphale sighs, rolls his eyes in annoyance, because he  _couldn't_ go out for lunch looking like a well-dressed English aristocrat and swapped clothing with Jean-something over there. Crowley snorts at the look.

"Well, suck it up buttercup," He said and was answered with a confused look.

"What?"

"Oh," He sighed, "Don't worry about it. You'll get it in some centuries..."

"Well..." Aziraphale distastefully stared down at his state of dress, "Barely counts as a miracle, really."

Crowley cocks an eyebrow at him before pointing to fingers at the balding man and snaps with both of his hands. Time comes to a start around them again and Jean- _whatever_ pats himself, looking with wide eyes at his clothing. The man sputters and gasps as guards come in, assuming that he was the English aristocrat from his clothes and drags him away, kicking and screaming. A victim of his own design.

"So," Crowley starts, not at all sorry for that death, "What's for lunch?"

Aziraphale smiles satirically, "What would you say to some crepes?" He asked.

 

* * *

 

InSt. James' park, London 1862, which would come to be their favorite rendezvous spot, Crowley stands, a bit of a worried expression on his face as he stares listlessly at the ducks. The grip he had on his fancy cane was turning his knuckles white and his jaw had clenched painfully tight.

There was more unrest in Hell, and sometimes, he could feel the heat, burning at his form, before returning to being perfectly fine. Lucifer was angry, and restless, and Crowley was a bit more worried for his status as a renegade.  _That suicide threat won't last for long..._

Which is why, seconds later, Aziraphale had appeared by his side, also adorned with his own fancy top hat and suit. Crowley wrinkles his nose in distaste.  _Was that a cotton collar?_

"Look..." Crowley started off, hesitant and the one worrying this time around, "I've been thinking—what if it goes all wrong? We have a lot in common, you and me."

"I don't know," Aziraphale sighs, feeding the ducks from the seeds he'd gathered in his top hat. "We may have both started off as angels, but you... have fallen."

Crowley glares heatedly with his serpent eyes from behind the sunglasses.  _You don't think I would forget that?_ He hissed. "I didn't fall," He said, with the utmost confidence, like a genius mathematician who was taking a math quiz, "I just... you know, sauntered  _vaguely downwards_."

"I need a favor," Crowley quickly added, swallowing.

"We already have the Agreement, Crowley," Aziraphale said, tossing more seeds into the pond, "Stay out of each other's way, lend a hand when needed."

"No..." Crowley muttered, "This—This is something else, for if it all goes pear-shaped."

"I like pears," The angel defended weakly.

"If it all goes wrong," Crowley repeated, this time a bit more strongly, "I want insurance."

"What?"

Crowley hands over the piece of paper, folded and slightly wrinkled in his fingers as the angel took it, "Can't say. Walls have ears—sorry, trees have ears, no wait,  _ducks_ have ears."

He turned, face scrunching up in confusion as he looked at the offending creature. He didn't create them. Must have been Gabriel who pitched in the idea, to make them look so funny. "Do ducks have ears?" He asked and Aziraphale's gaze snaps to his, alarmed.

"Must do," He muttered, distractedly, "That's how they hear other ducks."

A multitude of emotions, squeezed into one expression, crosses over Aziraphale's face and he scowls. "Out of the question," He hissed, fingering the piece of paper as if it had cursed his mother,  _well_ , if it had cursed the Almighty.

"Why not?" Crowley shot back.

"It would destroy you!" Aziraphale hotly argued, "I'm not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley."

He quickly hands back the rumpled paper and Crowley takes it back, tucks it in the crook of his elbows before burning it away with a small flame. "That's not what I want it for—just insurance," He argues weakly.

"I'm not an idiot, Crowley." He accused, then added as he looked above, "Do you know what trouble I'd be in if they knew I'd been  _fraternizing_?"

"It's completely out of the question."

Crowley turns to look, a sneer on his face, " _Fraternizing_?" He snarled.

"Well," Aziraphale amended, "Whatever you wish to call it. I do not think there is any point in discussing this over."

"I have lots of other people to fraternize with,  _Angel_ ," He glowered.

"Oh, of course."

"I don't need you."

"Well, and the feeling is mutual!" Aziraphale returned, scowling at him, as he stomped away, " _Obviously_."

Crowley rolls his eyes, turns back to look at the ducks and pulls a face. " _Obviously_ ," He mocked with a disgruntled expression on his face.

What used to be the paper, with heavy, bolded words of " **HOLY WATER** " had scattered into the ocean. Crowley stares, displeased that he couldn't just summon Holy Water, like he used to as Raphael, and turns away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shall now go and hibernate while generating more chapters.  
> Though I am very excited for the incoming chapters. *grins nervously*


	7. cretins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale had always just been a minor,  
> interesting thing in crowley's long existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. This is the last one. It's my treat.

The raid sirens blared across the dark night. Some would say that it was incredibly lucky that the Nazi spy found Aziraphael to be the unlucky librarian to supply her boss with the prophecy books, despite all of them being mostly false. Others would say that it was a miracle that Aziraphale was the one walking into the church that night, holding a stack of inaccuracy prophecies, not written by Agnes Nutter, the witch—the author that had written a book that was completely filled with  _correct_ and accurate prophecies.

But, Aziraphale didn't have a copy of the  _Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter_. There had been multiple copies, and if it stayed that way, perhaps one of them could have found its way to Aziraphale, but they didn't. There was only one, single couple of the book in the world, and the angel would practically fall over and roll around like a dog if it meant securing it.

Instead, Aziraphale had walked into the church, looking grim as he noticed the Germans. He removed his hat, and walked, as dignified as someone could be before they double-crossed cretins that served an even bigger one. A smile perpetuated his lips, as tight as it was, as he greeted them as pleasantly as he allowed himself to be.

"Mr. Glozier, Mr. Harmony," He stated, and Glozier had checked his pocket watch, a small sneer on his face.

"Mr. Fell, you are late."

Harmony stood up, eager. "You have the books for the Feuhrer?" He asked, pointing at the hanging stack.

"Ah, yes, I do." Aziraphale stated.

As Aziraphale was well on his way to being double crossed by Nazi cretins, on the other side of London, was Crowley who was still hurrying to find Aziraphale. But, with all the churches around, and their divine presence mixing in with one another, he was having no luck at all.

Back with Aziraphale, you would find that the rather gullible angel is being held at gunpoint by a beautiful, but idiotic Nazi, who had tricked him into thinking she was working for the M15. He stared nervously at the barrel of the gun, because  _seriously_ , there will be a lot of paperwork if he were to fail his mission of stunting Hitler's progress  _and_ lose his Heaven-issued body.

Harmony packs the stacks of books,  _his beloved books_ , away into the leather bag, clasps the leather handle together and straightens himself with a smug smile. Aziraphale wears the most exaggerated shocked look on his face, that while judged to be  _very_ exaggerated, was what he was feeling entirely.

As we've seen—very gullible.

In a stroke of luck, Crowley, who was on the other half of London, manages to find the correct Church. Though, the ground felt like hot,  _hot_ sand on a very,  _hot_ summer day, Crowley had marched onto, into the consecrated grounds of the church, clearly not built for him, and had been in the nick of time, to stop Aziraphale's discorporation.

He gasps in pain at the searing heat that threatened to burn off his toes, dancing on one leg before jumping to the other, and then switching back as he made his way towards Aziraphale and the idiots.

"Sorry," He wheezed out, "Consecrated ground—it's like, being at the beach in bare feet."

"What are you doing here?" Aziraphale hissed, still sour from their last  _fraternization_.

Indignant, Crowley hissed back as he hopped around, "I'm stopping  _you_ from getting into trouble."

A displeased line marred Aziraphale's lips as he turns to look at the Nazis and then back at the demon. "I should have known, of course. They're working for you, aren't they?" He accused and Crowley rolls his eyes.

"Haven't we been over this, like 900 times, Angel? I don't partake in any of this!" He hissed and switched legs again, before gesturing to the bemused Germans with a pained exhale. "There are also a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies rolling around London, blackmailing and murdering people."

"I just didn't want to see  _you_ discorporated." With that, he sinks in pain before starting to do a bastardized and elongated version of the Irish Tap dance, gasping in pain.

"Mr. Anthony J. Crowley," Glozier greets, not at all pleasant as the woman trains her gun on the funky man, "Your fame precedes you."

"Anthony?" Aziraphale mouthed, testing out the name, before his face twisted.

"What?" Crowley said, "Don't like it?"

"No, no," Aziraphale corrected quickly, though, in truth,  _he didn't_ , "I didn't say that, I'll get used to it."

"Yeah, but your face tells different—"

"—The famous Mr. Crowley?" The rather irrelevant girl cuts out and Crowley rolls his eyes before turning to Aziraphale.

"You  _see_? That one? She's a stupid Nazi spy.  _Me_? A certified agent of the M15," Crowley jeered at Aziraphale, who looked a bit confused.

"Certified agent?" He repeated, befuddled

"Such a pity you must both die," Whatever her name was had taken on a more poisonous tone. Crowley mockingly tips his hat at her and continues his dance.

Aziraphale's eyebrows knit in confusion. "What do the 'J' stand for?" He asked.

Crowley flushes, though he forces the heat back from his face, and shrugs, trying to find an excuse rather than answering with a lame and flat  _Janthonthy,_ because as he's admitted to before, he was absolutely rubbish at names. "I— erh, its just a J, really," He weakly stammers, shrugging again before he sets his eyes on the other familiar presence.

" _Oh_ ," He crooned, "Look at that! A fontful of holy water! It doesn't even have guards!"

"Enough of this—"

"— _ah, ah, ah_!" Crowley stopped, twisting around again, and winced, "In about a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will land directly on here. If you all run away, really, really,  _really_ fast, you might not die."

A dark look crosses his eyes and he tips his head down, glasses falling down his nose and showing all of them his acid-yellow serpentine eyes, that glared at them all. "You won't enjoy dying," He drawled out, voice a time away from threatening, but dark and low all the same, "And you definitely won't enjoy what comes after."

"You expect us to believe that?" Glozier scoffed, "The bombs tonight will fall on the East End."

"Yes," Crowley smirked, but then tipped his head towards the bemused angel, who looked like a fish out of water, and full on grinned, maliciously. "But, it'd only take a little last-minute demonic intervention to throw it off course, yes."

He glances at his metaphorical watch, leaning against a bench, yet still swapping support feet. "You're all wasting your valuable running-away time!" He sang.

"And," He added, cut by a gasp before finish quickly, " _If_ a bomb does land here, it would take a real  _miracle_ for my friend and I to survive it."

He stressed each word and gave a definitive stare at Aziraphale who blinked and jerked before smiling nervously.

"A real miracle?" Fat man, stupid man, Nazi man scoffed, "Kill them."

"They  _are_ very irritating," Harmony admitted, despite being silent since Crowley's arrival.

Suddenly, Crowley grins, wide and smug as they hear the loud whistling of a missile, no doubt heading towards the Church. He points upwards, and Aziraphale's hands clenched into fists with effort.  _(Crowley might have also made an effort to wrap the bag the girly-named boy held with some... cosmic energy. He had realized after some time that Aziraphale had absolutely adored every one of his books, like a helicopter parent, and would hunt done anyone that damaged it.)_

In the distance, they can feel the aftershock of the bombs exploding, and before any of the little cretins had even felt it, their bodies—every single cell in their mortal bodies, had died. Crowley's eyebrows slowly raise to his hairline, half expecting for the angel to leave him to be discorporated as well, but he  _didn't._

 _(It turns out, later as he walked away, he would also note that Aziraphale, had never tried to struck him down and kill him indefinitely or at all, before their_ _Agreement_ _. That was... interesting, to say the least.)_

"That was very kind of you," Aziraphale stayed, fiddling with his hat even if he were talking about killing people, even if they were Nazi cretins with less brain cells than a goldfish.

"Shaddup," Crowley said, but a large smile threatened to break on his face.  _It was kind of you too._ But, he was an emotionally constipated individually and certainly showing such heartfelt gratitude to the angel, was not his mojo, so he kept quiet.

" _Oh_ ," Aziraphale said suddenly and looked around, eyes wide.

He blinked and looked at the rather crestfallen angel as he moaned about his books in the torn and fiery landscape.  
Crowley rolled his eyes, walked over to the dead idiot, careful of his still raw feet, and jerked his hand, yanking at the bag. He gave a grunt, lips twitching into a smirk that suspiciously looked more like a smile and handed the bag of books back to the angel.

"Little demonic miracle of my own," He stated, and passed Aziraphale by, as the angel stared at his back, dumbfounded, yet still filled with a wide and stupid smile.

"Life home?" Crowley casually offered.

He had gotten a pristine and black Bentley, just to complete his new angsty aesthetic, and would have liked to drive Aziraphale back to Soho.

 

* * *

 

A good 2 decades later, and you'd find Crowley in a dingy private room of a not-dingy bar. After the rattling of the cage he found to be "Hell" had gotten a lot worse, Crowley had resorted to desperate means. With a finished glass of bourbon by his left, and another new haircut, Crowley had planned on raiding a Church for the Holy Water he's been meaning to acquire.

With him, of course, being the brain behind the group and the bank, with the money he's miracled into existence.

In 1967, he finds a rather funny organization called the "Witchfinder Army." Of course, Crowley didn't stick around as much as he posed to be, to know that the organization had killed Agnes Nutter, the author of a book that Aziraphale had practically  _weak_ at the knees for. But, suddenly, in 1976, he was the rather illegal supplier of such army.

 _But_ , also in 1976, a few minutes after finding the organization, Crowley sits in his Bentley, lips formed into a thin line of distaste as Aziraphale appears right next to him, in the passenger seat.

"What are you doing here?" He demanded, even if Soho,  _is_ a bit of Aziraphale's territory.

"I needed a word with you," Aziraphale replies, voice tight and Crowley's eyebrows scrunch together.

"What?"

"I work in Soho, I hear things, Crowley." He said, "And I hear that you're setting up a...  _caper_ to rob a church."

His voice is rather disappointed and his face shows more displeasure than Aziraphale had ever to Crowley. Crowley looks forward, jaw tight and lips pursed in agitation.

"Crowley, it's too dangerous. Holy Water won't just kill your body, it'll completely destroy you!"  _Well,_ he wasn't really sure about that, with his previous status, but he wasn't willing to test it out, if the phantom burns on the soles of his feet had to anything to say about it.

" _Yeah_? Well, you told me that 105 years ago and telling me that getting Holy Water is dangerous, ain't gonna stop the danger of Lucifer trying to gun for my hide!" He bursts, brows scrunching in irritation.

"Lucifer?" Aziraphale  _recoils_ at the mention of his brother's name, and sometimes, though not this time, Crowley has agreed that, that was the proper reaction. "What would he want with you?"

Then, he gave a small nod, "Well, aside from the reports that you've been flunking, from the many times you've mentioned," He added and Crowley scowls.

"I haven't been an Agent of Hell, since I've fell, Angel," He replied, honestly. "And, well, it's getting a bit too hot for me down there, in that cramped basement."

"Crowley, I can't," Aziraphale sighs, the fight leaving him, "I  _can't_ be having you risking your life. Not after what happened to you in 1941. So..."

He quietly trailed off, digging in his coat before pulling out a rather granny design of a Thermos,  _tartan_ , filled with Holy Water. Crowley turned, looking at Aziraphale, almost reverently.

"You can call off the robbery—and, don't go unscrewing the cap now." He added hurriedly.

Crowley smiles.  _You bastard_. The demon stores it away before looking up at Aziraphale. "Should I say, 'thank you'?" He asked and Aziraphale smiles, pained.

"Better not," He whispered and his smile straightens out to something akin of a grimace.

"Well," Crowley said, "Can I drop you off anywhere?"

Aziraphale gains a conflicting look, brows furrowing before turning to look at Crowley. "Not 90 miles per hour in Central London." He steely said and Crowley beams, eyes almost  _glowing_ from behind his shades.

"85, then?" He asked and Aziraphale sighs, almost tiredly like a mother to her child.

" _Crowley_."

Crowley grins cheekily and the Bentley starts up. One could say that Crowley had a horrible day, remembering the stinging of the  _holy_ fucking ground of a Church, as he planned his heist, others could say that what Aziraphale had said, completely changed his outlook towards the day—well, if we're being completely honest, it did change something.

And others not so much. Spike and Sally never did get a call back. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just changed the history of the ineffable husbands with one piece of dialogue by Aziraphale.  
> I love myself. On another note, I will be back... in roughly 2 weeks. :D


	8. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “you go too fast for me crowley.”  
> slash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don’t know what i did. but i’m very proud of it. i am a couple days early, but this is a little hibernation snack break. i’ll be back 2 days after july 4th. :D

****Perhaps, Crowley was closer to Aziraphale than a typical demon should be with an angel. Though, it was a broad term, since the distance in terms of relationship should be labeled with, _either to slay one another or no contact at all_. But, there was an unspeakable agreement amongst the tenants of Heaven and Hell to just glower at each other from the distance, and brandish their weapons while wickedly smiling at each other as they await for their second and last war. Aziraphale had moaned and groaned that it was like the Cold War all over again. Crowley hadn't stuck around to agree or disagree, but he agreed anyways, because it  _was_ also unspoken that, through the years, he was utterly whipped in this Agreement, with the capital A, to stress it's importance.

It was the year of 2007, and Crowley had just gotten another haircut, while Aziraphale had stayed never-changing, yet in a state of flux, with his wardrobe decisions. Crowley had tried to not judge,  _he really did_. But, horrible fashion decisions aside, he was, safe to safe,  _safe_. Hell, whine still boiling hotter than a pit of magma, had lost some of it's cold presence, as in example, of  _Lucifer fucking leaving like God did._

Poetically, in the end, Lucifer had rebelled against their creator, only to mimic Their actions to the T, aside from the increased factor of chaotic-ness. Due to the absence of his dear ol' brother, Crowley had slunk off from the bookshop he frequented, not that he read, and slithered down into Hell, just to get a feel of where they were on the clock.

_(Around the same time, in Los Angeles, an ocean away from the wayward fallen angel and his angel best friend, was the Devil himself, setting up shop.)_

 

* * *

 

"So, what's our time stamp?" Aziraphale asked, nervous.

"Mmm, they've been talking about delivering the Antichrist to a satanic church. Loudmouth and loose-lip the bunch of demons are." Crowley grinned, as if he wasn't one of them, because he  _wasn't_ —technically, "We have about a year, give or take, before they start the timer on the Apocalypse."

"Couldn't you have stop it?"

"What,  _no_!" Crowley sounded appalled, because he was. "I'm not going to kill a  _baby_ , besides, he's not—he hasn't even been procured yet."

_(It should have been said that it has been procured and is slowly inhaling the infernal flames smoke as Beelzebub figured out how to deliver it to the mortal world, but Crowley didn't know that.)_

"Really?" Aziraphale looked a bit downcast, unable to delay the inevitable, but a bit happy all the same at his no-kid rule.

Crowley grunted. "I talked with the idiot that was gonna deliver him." He added before a sly expression took his face.

"Though, if everything were to slide together smoothly... then I could... how can I say this, ah,  _intercept_  the delivery of the Anti _-_ Christ." Crowley smirked at the suddenly interesting expression Aziraphale wore.

"How?" Skeptical, but willing.

"I'd have to tail the loser until he delivers the baby. Knock out whoever has their strings attached to the little one, and well, literally,  _kidnap_ him, with some sleight of the hand," Crowley vaguely explain.

It would have also been easy to say that, he didn't know and he was bullshitting his way through it. But, Aziraphale bought it completely with a delighted expression, since proven from their countless interactions before—he was  _very_ gullible. Then, his eyes narrowed.

"This isn't really safe, Crowley," He warned, smarter part of his brain catching up and Crowley sniffed, nose twitching like the first time he ever used his corporal body after falling, though this time smelling the faint scent of whatever candle Aziraphale had picked up this time, the smell of old paper, and the angel himself.

"If I weren't to do this, even a year later,  _nothing_ would be safe, Angel," He retorted, though casual and in his usually drawling voice.

_(Though they trusted each other to save the other's lives, Crowley was still apprehensive about Aziraphale's blind faith in Heaven. Therefore, he had not disclosed some information that would have proven vital.)_

Crowley smiles grimly at the angel. "Don't worry Angel, who do you take me for? It'll be a job well done." He grins, cheeky and Aziraphale couldn't help the smile that broke on his lips as he snorted softly.

_(There was a small ringing in the back of his head, Crowley noticed, but didn't physically show any acknowledgement of it. As he smiled at Aziraphale, expression softening into something the both of them couldn't and wouldn't explain, he got to his feet, sauntered out of the bookshop, and left to investigate.)_

 

* * *

 

Crowley had gone to clubs before, like that one time in 1967, where he was planning to rob a Church. Though, he didn't care for physical pleasure or the like, the alcohol was  _very_ tasty. He did come back a few more times, though Aziraphale's disapproval of him when he showed up to his Soho bookshop, drunker than a pirate and the smell of cigarettes and perfume wafting off of him obnoxiously, he stopped.  _Whipped_ , as one would say.  _Being a good friend_ , as Crowley would say.

Yet, here he was, in America, about to step into a night club.  _Lux_ , it spelled and suddenly, a terrible feeling had settled into him.  _Oh_. He gagged,  _oh no_. Yet he still pressed forward, went in, and miraculously found himself a guest on the list for tonight's reserved party. In the center, like he always was, was Lucifer, in all of his mortal-form glory of tall, dark and handsome, entertaining the humans he were so against. Crowley stares, eyebrows raising up the second before the sound of the instrument stops.

The Devil steps off, Crowley stops time on an impulse and they're left as the only two beings who could move. Lucifer turns, smiling rather malevolently, though that was his trademark smile, and moves across the room towards Crowley. The demon who used to be Raphael takes a step back before squaring his shoulder and standing his ground, eyes narrowing.

"What are  _you_ doing here?" He demanded, suddenly sounding and knowing what a irked Aziraphale felt like, after meeting up in centuries. Lucifer rolled his eyes.

"Apocalypse starting in a year—blah blah blah, I've stopped caring about it. But, the little one is on it's way and well, time to enjoy what's about to be destroyed. They did say that you don't know what you're missing till it's gone—not that I'd miss this rock, but semantics." Lucifer sighed, melodramatically and smiled at him, almost beaming.

Crowley felt sick to his stomach at how familiar Lucifer felt to Samael. He eyed the people around them, "If you're enjoying it so much that you've lowered yourself to entertaining the humans, than you should call it off." He carefully said.

Lucifer cocks an eyebrow, "Call what off? The apocalypse? You're kidding." He laughed.

"It isn't up to me anymore, I don't wanna go back into that pit, brother. Look, you might not be visited, but calling it off would make obnoxious little Gabriel hunt me down to the ends of the universe and nobody wants that." At the mention of their youngest sibling, both elder ones face twists in displeasure. Gabriel, while a bit annoying, yet cute all the same as a fledgling little Angel, was  _not_ cute as in "I am the Archangel  _fucking_ Gabriel" that they were now in the presence of.

At least, both siblings had agreed on something in the millenniums that passed.

"What?" Lucifer asked, a lot more pacified than before.

Crowley bristled, "If this was all it took, after you demanded that I serve you, than honestly, trying to rob a Church for Holy Water was  _definitely_ not worth it." He muttered.

"You  _what_?"

"Suicide and all that. Teenagers and younger ones love it," Crowley shrugged, "And well, I didn't really want to have to force myself out of my corporal form, so Holy Water was the way to go."

Lucifer snorts. "That's the first real thing I've seen you do in  _years_." He casually said, a poke at what he considered to be Raphael's, and subsequently, Crowley's cowardice.

"I didn't really  _rob_ it. There wasn't even a raid. I was just handed a thermos of it," Crowley replies, not at all caring at what he exposed. It was in the past, it's not like the crafty bastard in front of him could use it to force him to obey.

In the end, Lucifer got nothing and Crowley had gotten  _something_ , out of it. In the end, he had flew back to England, quiet about his affair oversees and called up a housekeeper to keep his plants green as they were. He parked his Bentley, flew to Soho and drank one last time with Aziraphale and slithered down into Hell.

 

* * *

 

It was a dark night,  _well_ , all nights were dark, but excuse him, to say that it was a  _very_ dark night. Like those stupid, and not at all scary movies, that Aziraphale would sometimes watch with the crappy graveyard and smoke-filled ground. Speaking of Aziraphale, Crowley heaved a heavy and long sigh at the mention of the angel. He leaned his head back against the seat and a few mutters slipped past his lips.

It's been about a year since he's seen the angel, and while he's been  _trying_ to treat his rather long camp trip down in Hell like any other time they'd been away from each other down the centuries, he really couldn't. You could say, that it was the difference in circumstances—one, for that they had stayed away from each other since Crowley hadn't felt like sticking around humans for too long.

_(Death, destruction, War, Famine, sickness. Dying and cannot be healed. DYINGTHEPLAGUE14THCENTURY. DYINGDYINGDYING—)_

Two, since Crowley couldn't stay long, lest Michael or some other angel had wanted to peak into Aziraphale's everyday life, as an Agent of Heaven sent down to Earth.

He mindlessly scratches the side of his jaw and watched silently as the two demons had exchanged a few words towards each other and waited for a third. Waiting in the Bentley was mind-numbing and without Queen playing in the background, either a track by the artists themselves, or some variation of it, like Tchaikovsky's _Another One Bites the Dust_ or Beethoven's  _Fat Bottomed Girls_ , a trait his Bentley seemed to have, which no other car did, was making the silence even worse. Though, Crowley had preferred to a psychological horror-esque silence to getting caught.

 _Finally_ , as the not-really-a-demon so victoriously thought, their lame and very late guest had arrived, from ground-up. He stammers, makes up excuses and quickly grabs the basket—which no without a doubt in Crowley's mind, contains their little switch to universal explosion. Or, in more laymen's term; the Antichrist; the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, the Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this Word, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, his rather lazy and bipolar brother, Lord of Darkness, and inconspicuously, Crowley's nephew.

Our hero, the demon-not-so demon stares with a rather bland stare at the basket, which holds something much more important. The demon, who was shaking, either in fear of the  _Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, the Great Beast—_ a fucking baby, or in excitement for the starter of the end of the world, had quickly started to fidget. That worked out for Crowley too. But, as the sad sap of a demon signs the contract, signature burning it into the infernal flames a second later, both moldy demons who had stood there, and would have stood for days, sinks back down into Hell, leaving the demon with a basket standing there.

Crowley makes his move. Demons, the Fallen Angels, had their wings burned off, because their grace and their wings, minuscule manifestations of their grace onto their physical forms, couldn't handle the  _burningburningshiftingtwisting—_ Fall, therefore, their grace had diminished, burnt and then became something twisted, perverse. Crowley was luckier, with his status, but  _that_ wasn't the point. The  _point_ was, that he needed to knock out, or even better, kill the demon and take the baby in his place.

So, Crowley did. It was sad, how they had left the demon to travel with messy teleportation, fast as their otherworldly powers could carry them, as they had left the demon to Crowley's mercy. Crowley who still bare his wings, albeit of a different kind, and Crowley who was  _much_ faster than he was. He swoops in, the child cries in the silence of the edge of the graveyard, swings his coal-colored wings at the delivery demon mercilessly and incapacitates him. While they were both demons, Crowley had been in hell a good three times and he wasn't very of  _good_ intentions in thought, or everything else, towards the demons, in general, so there was no guilt when the demon is knocked off his ass.

Crowley grins, eyes sharp behind his glasses and wings fanning out, like the Reaper himself coming to cash in on this almost-poor soul. "Hello," He cheekily said, hands coming to materialize the tartan thermos hiding in his vault,  _god tartan_ , and he quickly unscrews the cap.

Crowley wraps his hands in his cosmic essence, hopeful that they would shield his demonic nature against the Holy Water, splashes it sparingly, a further precaution, must he do this again, or to himself, and watches quietly as the demon discorporates, and  _dies_ eternally. There's no grim satisfaction, no groveling, no pride, nothing—nothing, but a job well done if he wanted to keep this short-living rock that Aziraphale loved so much alive, and for the second war to not happen.

The basket containing his nephew slumps with the demon's clothes, and Crowley gingerly picks it up. He opens one of the flaps, stares inside of it, and looks blankly. The demon has no idea what to do now. Should he finish the job, one he was stopping, or should he— should he—  _do something very clever, and very stupid._

Crowley smirks. "Hi, kid, it's me—your dear uncle Crowley." He murmured, and walks back to the Bentley, who faithfully waits for it's owner, and sets the basket next to him on the passenger seat. There was no competition.

He pops into the driver's seat, closes both doors with the click of his fingers and slides in a disc, no doubt also playing Queen. Slowly, as if his car knows that there's another passenger inside, one not of higher intelligence than a cub right now, eases into Mozart's  _Another One Bites the Dust_. Crowley cheekily grins. A fitting song, for a fitting night, he thought and drives off.

 

* * *

 

Hurriedly, Crowley walks out as Puccini's  _Killer Queen_ slowly mesh into the background as silence, hand gripping the basket that held his nephew tightly and marches on. There's a man, standing outside, with a cigar on his fingers and a nervous look on his face. Crowley is stupidly reminded of the angel again, with his own charmingly nervous expression, a common sight.

 _Speaking_ of the Angel, currently, Aziraphale was in Japan, sitting on a very comfortable seat and dining in a  _very_ luxurious sushi bar. He smiles with eagerness, yet soft all the same and inwardly, noting to revisit, possibly to bring Crowley along.

_"Here is the selection of your favorite sushi rolls, my dear Aziraphale-San."_

Aziraphale smiles delightedly, and gives a small, courteous bow of the head to the chef in respect. "Thank you chef, that's very little kind of you." He uttered and quickly peeks down at his plate.

The aroma of the dish wafts towards his nostrils and he hums contentedly at the small. "Mmmm."

 _Ting_. He jerks, looking up, alarmed at the sudden influx of angelic grace and turns to his right. He frowns before trying with his left and flinches back at the appearance of Gabriel, who looks rather disgusted at the plate of  _glorious food_ and the restaurant itself. His eyes widen and he squares his face.

"Mind if I join you?" The Archangel asks, but  _knows_ that the lowly angel before him will agree.

"Gabriel!" He gasps in surprise, "What an unexpected pleasure."

 _Not_. Aziraphale closes off his mind and thinks.  _Not a pleasure_. But, he smiles painfully tight at the higher ranking angel, even if it hurts his cheeks at how much he  _doesn't_ want to smile.

"It's been..." He trailed off.

"Quite a while," Grabriel nodded, a smile perpetually on his lips, which reminded Aziraphale of the contractors who frequented his bookstore once, trying to appease to him to sell the land. Aziraphale had told them he'd think about it. Too bad, they came in once, walked out, and never came back.

The angel had hoped the same could happen to his boss, right here and right now, but it was a pipe dream.

Then, he looks at the dish, pointing at it, as if it has sullied his mother. "Why do you consume that?" He asked, brows knitting in confusion. "You're an angel."

"It's sushi," Aziraphale replied, flat, and very much so offended. Because  _it's fucking sushi._ Then added hurriedly at his rather obvious attitude, "It's nice—you dip it in soy sauce!

"It's what humans do," He continued and nodded at himself, an excuse-not-lie well done. "And if I am going to be living here among them—"

He cleared his throat. "—Keeping up appearances so that I am not expose is rather... mandatory," then he turns and nods his head towards the cup, "Tea?"

"I  _do not_ sully the temple of my celestial body with gross matter."

Aziraphale had closed his mouth to not mention that his feet  _were_ touching the floors of the sushi bar, which by definition, is matter.  _Gross matter_ , in the pompous Archangel's word.

"Obviously not," He mumbles instead, hands fighting against his obvious effort to stop them from fidgeting. "Nice suit."

Gabriel smiles widely, a bit more genuine and a bit more smug. "Yes, I like the clothes!" He said before adding on, in a demeaning way, or  _well_ , more demeaning than his usual talk.

"Pity they won't be around much longer."

Aziraphale's brow furrow.  _It's already this close?_ "They won't?" He asked, just to be sure and Gabriel nods.

"We have reliable information that things are afoot." Never has an angel sound so eager and excited for blood and death, just for War. Then adds, "My informant suggests that the demon you've been... spotted with and have reported on, may have been involved."

Aziraphale's mouth stretches in a thin line.  _They've been spying on me?_ Then dryly adds in thought,  _Of course they have._ Though, to any other who would have heard it, Aziraphale had sounded  _very_ hurt.

"You need to keep him under observation, without of course, letting him know that's what you're doing," Gabriel adds with a pointed look.

Aziraphale snaps back into attention with a nod. "Of course, yes!" He replied quickly. "I've been on Earth doing this since the beginning!"

"So has that  _demon_ ," Gabriel spat, then adds condescendingly, because that's what Gabriel did. "It's a miracle he hasn't spotted you yet."

Then he laughs, "Yes—I know. Miracles are what we do."

Aziraphale smiles, uncomfortably, and looks down as the Archangel disappears, sullen.  _I..._ He wouldn't admit it to his superiors, now, but in thought, he could freely admit that spying on Crowley, and keeping him in check and observation, wasn't what he was doing, and it wasn't what Aziraphale intended on "continuing" to do.   


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Destroyer of Kong's"   
> *maniacal laughter*


	9. in possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an attempt at badly written emotions.

MeetHarriet Dowling and her American husband, American diplomat, Thaddeus Dowling. Armed vehicles surrounded the ambulance as they broke speed limit to reach the local nuns, after finding out that the base they were suppose to deliver the baby in, was, suspiciously, not available for use. She was delivering Baby A, a completely irrelevant baby, who would not be included in the metaphorical swap.

They reached the church in record speed, swiftly wheeling her in. The nuns were surprisingly welcoming and all too cheerful to deliver the child of the American ambassador's wife.

Then, meet Mrs. and Mr. Young, of Lower Tadfield, whose baby was to be expected two weeks later, but had stormed in moaning and crying in pain. This was Baby B, a baby irrelevant and also not included in a swap. It should be mentioned earlier that there  _wouldn't_ be a swap, but the Chattering Nuns didn't know that.

Sister Mary Loquacious, who was a hopeful young woman, and vary aware of what her sisters were doing, yet willing all the same, had been by the main lobby, therefor catching the in-labor Mrs. Young and the very distressed Mr. Young as they hurried into the church. She, on pure luck, had dropped whatever she was assigned and directed the couple into Room 3.

The Dowlings, who were suppose to then raise the Adversary,  _blah blah blah_ , the Antichrist, was stationed in Room 4.

Both human couples, and their to-be babies had not known of the affair of the swapping, and were very ignorant to it.

Crowley was  _very_ aware of the plan. Therefor, he walks in, strutting with his nephew in his hand, and catches the  _same_ nun, who had delivered Mrs. Young's child. While confused at the new demon, she appears to be excited all the same at the basket in his hands.

"Is this him?" She gasped and Crowley thought that it couldn't hurt, so he opened a flap of the basket to let her peer into, eyes wide with awe.

"Yeah," he nodded before gesturing. "Could you—"

"Oh, of course, I can take him—"

"No, no. I meant the room. Can you show me the room?" Crowley asked, cutting in quickly and Sister Mary Loquacious deflated in disappointment, but directs him all the same.

Crowley grins a toothy grin at her, and wriggles the offending basket. "It's just, ya know—there's a process I have to do, so that the Antichrist is fully integrated," the demon said, fully aware he was lying through his teeth and that the bullshit that he was feeding her, she was definitely swallowing.

She nods enthusiastically, leads him into Room 3, like the man, undoubtedly the father, from outside had told him when he curtly asked, and they walk in to see the mother sleeping. Crowley smiles, relieved and quickly gestures for her to go with a bit of his blasphemous powers.

" _Go_." He ordered, and she nods, eyes glazed and expression clouded.

Crowley sighed, draws on both his retained angelic abilities, his blasphemous powers and releases it in a blast of concentrated energy to stop times, just like the many times he's done so before. He grins, looks down at the basket that his nephew resides in, and then towards the baby who were to be disposed of, if the real plan had gone through. Instead, Crowley gathers his angelic abilities, that far exceeded those of a regular angel, and blesses the baby, even if it hurts him to, and even if it's against his nature, of good health and a blooming future.

Then, time resumes, both baby cries and he quickly leaves, in fear that the mother would awaken. On the way, he passes a rather stern nun, and stops as she glares at him, before looking at the basket.

"Who are you?" She demanded, hissing.

"I—Uhm, I'm suppose to—  _was_ suppose to deliver the Antichrist? Our Dark Lord?" He asked, and edges the basket behind him, a futile attempt that catches her attention.

Crowley is jittery and  _very_ nervous of his plan, and of having to face Aziraphale again, after a year, and with a baby in tow as well. So, when she softens, if only a little bit and in reverence, demands to see the Antichrist, he rolls his eyes, clicks his fingers and leaves her in a daze of forcefully-inserted thoughts of  _he's with the American Ambassador. A job well done_ , but never able to visualize the scene.

Oh well.

 

* * *

 

Crowley quickly passes the man, uttering, "Yes, your babies delivered, bye!" And sprints to his Bentley, mindful of his nephew and slams the car door shut.

Freddie Mercury's voice as  _Bohemian Rhapsody_ plays frantically into his ear, makes his nerves increase and for the nameless Antichrist to start crying. His face scrunches up and his serpent eyes look back at the opened flap of the basket before he turns off the music.  _Fuck_ , he thought.

 _Fuck_ , Crowley thinks again, as he stands outside of Aziraphale's bookstore, hand clenched tightly around the basket handle and crickets loudly chirping.  _Fuck_ , he repeats as he raps his knuckles against the bookshop at 1 in the morning and very much so expecting his Angel to open.

"I— _we're closed_!" Crowley sighs, eyeing the door dryly.

"It's me, Angel," He repeated, a bit quieter than a shout and raps the door again, like a nervous boy waiting for his prom date and being eyed by her terrible father. He swallows, and smiles as the door opens and Aziraphale pokes his head out.

The angel's expression softens and the door opens a little wider. "Oh, my dear boy—you should have told me that you'd be arriving!" He gasped out. Both supernatural beings didn't really have a concept of time—where as Aziraphale had never really  _slept_ , Crowley reveled in sleeping off decades.

"Yeah, Angel—hi," He stuttered before quickly moving in, hand gently pushing Aziraphale inside, and other hand hiding the basket behind his form. "Can I— Can I talk to you about something, it's  _very_ important."

"Crowley," Aziraphale started, tone suspicious, yet indulging all the same, "What have you got there in your hand?"

Crowley if he could, would have sweated nervously, but instead, he brought up the basket, which Aziraphale can now hear muffled crying inside, and smiles a very tight smile. "Surprise?" He uttered weakly.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale said, eyes wide, "Did you kidnap a baby—"

"— _What_? Angel,  _no_. Say hi to my n—Say hi to the Antichrist," He grinned, stumbling over it, because  _right_ , Crowley hadn't told the angel of who he was yet.

Aziraphale shot him a look over his little mishap and he smiled at him, wriggling the basket to emphasize it's importance. "I—uh, I might have done a little mind-influencing and scored the baby." He muttered, looking away.

Then quickly added, with wide eyes, "Just the little thing! Like you know, Uhm, er, like  _hey, the Antichrist is delivered, haha no need to worry_ ," He said and Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

"And, uhm," he finishes quite lamely and rather soft, "I was wondering if, you would help me raise him, so that when the time comes, he doesn't, you know, end the world, with us there to stop him?"

Crowley hadn't felt hope in so long, and he didn't know what to do with it and squashed it out like popping a balloon. "I mean, you know, to balance out the evil with good, good cop-bad cop?" He added, quickly.

"I—Crowley, this is so  _spontaneous_ , I can't just," Aziraphale stammered out with wide eyes.

It seemed rather crazy, if there was any passerby's at one in the morning, who were either a, not on drugs, and b, very sober, to see a grown man holding a basket which held a baby inside, pleading the mean bookshop owner they scarcely know of, to raise a baby with him. One would also go,  _are you the father_? As in, the game show, and be treated with  _no, but we're trying to stop the end of the world,_ from a rather harsh Crowley.

"I can't just leave this bookshop," He finished weakly, and looked back at his beloved home on Earth, filled with many books, arranging from Bibles that were just incorrect, to a mint-condition, first edition  _A Christmas Carol (1843)_ by Charles Dickens, himself. Aziraphale was rather proud of that one, aside from his Prophecy and Bible collections.

_(Crowley did gift him that one.)_

"I— _Angel_ ," Crowley uttered, a single word, name, so softly and pleadingly.

"Crowley, I,  _I can't_." Aziraphale stated, equally as soft as he gazed at the demon, before adding, "I don't think that I can risk letting Heaven know about the Antichrist and...  _you_."

"Aziraphale,  _Heaven_ and  _Hell_ won't even matter, if the End of the World comes." Crowley said, voice pitching higher with desperation, "I don't think I can raise him  _right_. I don't think I can raise the little one just a little bit  _good_."

_(Crowley wasn't really asking Aziraphale to raise a kid with him—well he was, but in some twisted, poetic way, the demon was asking the angel to run away with him.)_

Then, he cleared his throat, and looked at Aziraphale, serpentine eyes peering straight into Aziraphale's from right behind his glasses. "Does our... what, 6000 year old friendship mean so little to you, that you'd pick Heaven over me?"

"Crowley, we've talked about this. We have an  _Agreement_ , we're an Angel, and a Demon. We're on opposite sides! I can't just—"

"Angel, we both know that we haven't been on those sides for a  _long_ time," Crowley hissed, "We're on our  _own_ side."

Aziraphale stares, doing that  _look_ that Crowley absolutes  _despised._ It was like— like the Angel knew  _more_ than Crowley did, but in reality he didn't, and he just felt so, so  _sorry_ for the pitiful thing that was named Crowley, that he just adopted that,  _sad_ look. "No." He uttered, from their silence.

"No,  _what_?" Crowley demanded.

"No, Crowley, I had found out that Heaven is keeping a more careful watch of it's only Earth agent. And, I can't. Crowley, you and this friendship... it means  _too_ much to me to let me risk you." Aziraphale clarifies solemnly and Crowley stared blankly. "So, no. I can't."

"But, I believe that you can raise him right. I believe that deep down, from our 6000 year friendship, that you still have that little bit of you when you were an angel." There is a solid faith and conviction that rings from Aziraphale's voice and it leaves Crowley, just a bit more breathless than before.

"Oh." Crowley just  _deflates,_ grip pathetically slacking it's hold on the handle of the basket and he sounded so, so—

Little.

_(There was a funny feeling in his gut. Crowley decided, the moment it made him aware of it's stupid existence, that he despised that too.)_

" _Oh_ ," He repeated before squaring his shoulders and maybe his lips just  _wobbled_ a little bit. Nobody has to know. "Okay."

"I'll see you around, Angel."

And Aziraphale just  _stares_ silently and defeatedly as Crowley drags his feet back to the Bentley, load the child in and drive off.

 _(Somebody to Love, sang by Freddie Mercury, did_ not  _drift into Crowley's ears, like his car knew the troubles of his existence. It did_ not _.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so choppy because I had rewritten that last scene too many times, but I had came across a satisfactory-ish ending. So, yay.


	10. single parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a crappy chapter.

"Well,you've really done it now," Crowley said softly to himself as he walked up to his apartment, which seemed to radiate of how sterile and lonely it was than usual. Even the baby didn't dare to cry. Crowley felt miserable, but  _very_ determined, because Crowley was a petty son of a bitch.  _So,_ fuck Heaven,  _fuck_ Hell— the baby starts to bawl and Crowley, who's only blessed babies as an angel, and never had to take care of them, gives the unnamed child a dirty look.

"Fuck you too." Before, he groans and slaps the palm of his hand sluggishly against his cheek. He's been a parent for, what, six minutes, officially, and he's already fucked up by cursing at his  _new_ and very, no-named child. "Aw, fuck."

"Fuck—no, wait  _shit_ ,  _no,_ I didn't mean to say that, damn it." He muttered to himself, and stared at the human child who was still crying. And by now, Crowley had just filtered that out from his ears, because he was a  _fucking demon and he could do that._

"You, uh, human baby,  _thing_ , how do I stop you from crying?" He cringed at his own question as a red hue overtook the baby's natural skin color and fat tears ran down it's cheeks.

Like it was told, Crowley, and Raphael, really, had never dealt intimately with children before, and therefor, he was the worst person  _anybody_ could give a child to. "Please, just, shut  _up_ ," He snapped and coaxes the baby into sleep.

"Fuck," He swore to himself and stared helplessly at the small, little creature, who was his responsibility now. "Fuck, what do I  _do_? I don't—it's not even  _my_ child and I was depending on Aziraphale to say yes, because I don't know how to fucking raise one of  _these_."

He gave another long groan, pitiful and very much so, whining. Though, Crowley didn't know much about the human biology and it's miniature form, he did know what he couldn't forever just keep coaxing the child into a state of rest. Though—

An idea sprung into his mind and he bounced a look from his very, green and lush plants, not  _at all_ , trembling in his presence due to his passive-aggressive threatening, and then towards the sleeping child. "I,  _did_ read some very helpful advice from the magazines..." He muttered, voice trailing off.

_(Other than the fact that he couldn't keep forcing the child to sleep with a little flick of the wrist, he knew that he couldn't call on Aziraphale to help. His pride and ego, very much so, demanded him to not do so. And so were his feelings, but, such things were buried deep down under the mass of sass and sarcasm, so Crowley didn't see it.)_

 

* * *

 

Advice number 1, on the  _How to Parent for Dummies,_ book had stated that first and foremost, before being a parent, one should consider having kids a positive thing, and something that the future-would-be-parent would want in their lives. Crowley had placed the rather thick book down, shuddering while at it, because he didn't  _read_ things like eye-injuring, small-text-size books that ran for more than 500 pages, but he did now. And then,  _stared_ at his baby nephew, who was the Antichrist; the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness and decided immediately that  _nope, I never wanted this_ , and then moved onto number 2.

 _Fuck me._ He thought silently.  _(Crowley was an unusual parent, but so was the nameless, usual child. So, they took to unusual methods, that included the demon freezing time in the place the baby was in for a long duration of time, and reading endlessly on parenting magazines, the first thing he got his hands on, and then to shorter parenting books and then finally, the giant, and thick, everything-you-need-to-know about parenting books.)_

Number 2, learn how to communicate with your kids. Oh, Crowley got that one in the  _bag_. No, he doesn't. The serpent demon didn't have all the languages jumbling around his head, and he was in the process of forgetting a language, in his extensive of library of them, aka his head, every second of the day, so that was a big, fat lie. He couldn't even speak  _Baby_.

And so, he spirals, down and down the rabbit hole.

_(3, You're not going to do everything right. Crowley had thought that one was stupid, because of course he wasn't going to be doing everything "right" or just—he didn't want his new, and very much unnamed tenant, to be Heaven-incarnate, but damn it, he didn't want some Satan-incarnate, either. One of his brother was enough.)_

"No, no, no, no," Crowley muttered, flipped through the back, and gave a small noise of frustration and threw the book away to make it feel at home with it's brethren. "Fuck, this is just a stupid mess and mistake and I  _should_ have just let that loser swap him. How do you take care of this?"

"Stupid,  _fucking_ Lucifer—"

Crowley quieted, and unfroze the baby, who just,  _immediately_ started to cry. "No, you, baby, please  _stop_ ," He frantically got to his feet and towards the small creatures, trying to shush it.

"Oh!" He cried out, "Are you hungry? Do you need water? Is it too cold?  _No_ , Crowley you idiot, it's not a dog—It's a human, child thing."

_(Four. Don't give up on your children—be persistent and keep trying. Your kids need you to be strong.)_

Crowley huffs, inhaled deeply, even if he didn't need to, and then exhales. It was a trick he learned from humans to calm oneself down, and well, it never really helped in past instances, but it did now. So, maybe not eternally curse the idiots that showed him that. "Okay," he muttered, "Okay, Okay. I got this, I got this, I  _got this_. I got it.  _No_ —FUCK YOU SAMAEL!"

"I—no. I need, I need, what do I need?" He muttered, hands waving around the baby and eyes very wide behind his glasses.

In the end, Crowley, who has always swallowed down his pride and came back crawling to Aziraphale, had ended up  _not_ calling for Aziraphale, but he did ring up his smartphone and called a parenting helpline.

 

* * *

 

**[18002578942 - 1:47:03]**

**18002578942:** Hi! This child-pregnancy-birth-child support line services, and I'm Maya, how may I help you?

 **Crowley:** Uhm, yes, hello, My-Uhm, My...

_[There was a rather loud and obnoxious cry in the background as the man who called, had placed the phone away, muting the crying a bit and there was frantic whispering before the voice came back.]_

**Crowley:** My wife! My wife is gone for a few weeks, and I don't know what to do. New parent and all, and I don't know how to calm down the little one, or have an idea of what i— _he_ needs.

 **Maya:** Sir, I need you to calm down.

 **Crowley:** I am calm!

_[The phone from Crowley's end, is once again far away and there is muffled cursing. There's a small crash and a hiss, that wasn't as human as Crowley had thought, before his voice came back in full quality once more.]_

**Crowley:** Right sorry. It's just, the kid's— _well_ , he's a baby, and he's crying and I don't know how to calm him down. I don't even know what i _—he_ wants.

 **Maya:** Have you tried the Five S's sir?

 **Crowley:** What the f—heck, is that?

_[Clearly, this man needed lots of help, Maya thought, as she patiently assisted him. In no time—half an hour—there is no background noise of a baby crying. Crowley had inwardly cried in relief, and Maya had smiled smugly from her side. A job well done.]_

_[So, Human and demon-in-disguise spend the next hour trying to make Crowley understand the ways of parenting. They get very far, and there is a sound relief in Maya's voice as she disconnects. There is also a victorious feeling blooming in Crowley's chest when he hangs up]_

**Crowley:** I— _thank you?_ —for your help—okay, bye!

 

* * *

 

Crowley places the phone down and the demon stares at the sleeping, from it's own free will, baby, and  _slumps_ in relief. "Holy fuck." He breathed out.

His black jacket, which was just a lazy materialization, might be stained with snot and bile, but the baby was asleep, tucked into his new red blanket and sleeping in it's new cot. His flat, which was pristine, very much lonely and depressing, might be dirty and stank of baby poo, but the unnamed child was  _asleep_  and peaceful and  _tucked away and Crowley didn't have to hear it's obnoxious crying again._

Crowley stared. "Oh," He whispered. "You need a name."

Crowley was absolutely  _rubbish,_ the  _trash_ of naming things. His nose scrunched.  _("I believe that deep down, from our 6000 year friendship, that you still have that little bit of you when you were an angel.")_ The demon leans his slumped weight against the cot and stares at the little one, so peaceful and unaware of it's fate in the coming years.

"Oh, Angel," Crowley sighed, if not full of fondness and tightly squeezes his eyes together. "I was more than an angel. Maybe someday, I'll tell."

"The great healer and creator of worlds, of stars and galaxies. The first healer of all Creation," He lamented, wistful and time full of a bittersweet feeling. "The Archangel Raphael, third oldest of all Archangels in creation—Fallen."

_(In the end, the baby slept itself off with it's new name. Raphael, the "good" part of the demon called Crowley, and for once, Crowley had noticed that his old name had not stung.)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shitty ending to commemorate a shitty chapter, no?


	11. the bad parenting chapter everyone wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> city of angels.   
> blech

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *claps slowly* 
> 
> haha, yay.

**Crowley** had read somewhere, in a trashy magazine that if you talked to your plants, they'd grow better. And well, his brown-spotted leaf plants, were just  _not_ up to his standards. Still, he didn't lower himself to yelling,  _yet_ , but had instead, passive aggressively threatened to turn them into tiny little leaf-bits which left them shivering in fear, but it got the job done.  _(He didn't mention that the color of a healthy, very green, plant, had deeply reminded him of his past wings, verdant, a deep emerald, and no longer in his grasp.)_

Now, they had willingly bloomed into beautiful, lush little things, every time his little one was around, and  _maybe_ he was a bit more petty in his handling of his plants, despite his love— _read, obsession_ —for them. But, besides that, nothing had changed really, from the beeping of his watch, that told twenty different times, and one, all the same, at six in the morning, to making breakfast everyday for his  _son_ —he may have had to force back the gag reflex at that, because  _son_ , his very own  _son_ —and going on with their daily day, before putting the little tyke back into bed, whispering assurances, that  _no, Raphael, there is no monsters under the bed, and that daddy would protect you_.

Crowley would know if there was some very low level parasitic demon, trying to claw their ways into his little one. He had already burnt two to crisps, two days ago. No doubt, his discorporating of the idiots, and his job well down five years ago, would alert the other idiots down in Hell, of his presence, as a rather freelance demon.  _So_ , he opt to move again.

" _Raphael_ ," Crowley drawled out, in his typical lazy drawl, yet still sounding like a classic, disappointed parent all the same, as the child pouted up at him, eyes twinkling—

"But, Daddy," Raphael bemoaned, "Why are we moving? I like it here!"

Crowley stared, gaze dead.  _Why did I come to this? What have the great Crowley done to be in this situation?_ The demon had a very strong urge to forget about the world, curl up in his bed and sleep off another century.  _But_ , he whined to himself,  _if you go to sleep and leave the child to die you won't make it to a century. You wouldn't even make it to a decade._ So, instead of curling up in a fetal position and crying himself into another depressive sleep, the demon had then sighed long and hard, nursing an incoming headache—and when did he start to be able to get  _those?_ —and gave a glare to the child.

" _Raphael_ ," He repeated, tone hard.

"Yes, daddy?" Raphael had grinned cheekily, just like Crowley would have done in his situation.

"Daddy has to tell you a secret, about why we're moving," Crowley whispered and leaned in conspiratorially. The child's eyes widen and his head almost  _rams_ into Crowley's at the speed.

"Tell me, tell me,  _tell me_."

"It's because the monsters under your bed," He whispered, grinning. The partial-truth has always served as the best lie, he knew from personal experience. "I hear that they're trying a lot harder to take you away from me now, and daddy can't always be there to scare them away. So, we have to move and hide away from the bad monsters again."

"But, wouldn't they just come with us with us, under our bed?" Raphael asked and Crowley rolled his eyes.

"Of course not, dear. Where we're moving, the monsters won't even  _dare_ try." Crowley reassures, and yes, that was very much the truth. Though, it's been a few good years—read: 6 and very much close to the prophesied Armageddon—surely, his brother would remember.

"So, come on, let's go finish your breakfast and get your shoes on."

And, when they had left, aboard a plane, and in the clouds, trapped in a flying metal suicide pill, the demon hadn't even had the thoughts of Aziraphale cross his mind. That was a first in years.

"Come, little one," Crowley had muttered, voice carefully quiet as his hand laced around Raphael's, grip firm.

America was all about  _hustling_ , rushing and polluting themselves to death. While, it wasn't his first choice when he took the little model of earth and spun it around, since his choice wasn't even  _on_ the globe, he settled for America. Since, America has the place where he needed to go. The demon had wanted to run to Lucifer, which first,  _is_ stupid as it sounds and second, there was no second. The plan was founded based on fleeting hope and utter stupidity, and yet, here they were, in a taxi and awkwardly, well Crowley was gripping the boy's hand very firmly, holding each other's hands as the taxi drove to Los Angeles, ironically named, the City of Angels.

 

* * *

 

Crowley kneels down, peers into Raphael's eyes, even if the child can barely catch a glimpse of is, behind his dark glasses and grimly smiles. "I'm going to need you to stay behind me, okay, little guy?" He asked, soft and gentle.

_(If he's said it once, then Crowley has definitely said for more than a hundred times in a variety of ways—he was utterly and completely turning soft because of this boy, who was named after the minuscule, little, and microscopic portion of him that was deemed "good." The boy, Raphael, his son, who Crowley might have to kill to stop the end of the world, to stop the Last and Second Great Heavenly War.)_

Rather cowed in by his father's serious demeanor, Raphael nods obediently, faintly aware that this was a time for him to put on his "big boy" face, meaning he couldn't mess around like usual, anymore. "Okay, daddy," He whispered.

"Good." Crowley smirked, which seemed a bit softer and more like a smile than a smirk before standing to his full height.

The elevator they were on rocked for a second before opening with a ding. Crowley stiffly walked up, the Los Angeles skyline in his periphery, and slowly eases as the sight of his brother playing with human girls grace his sight. His face scrunch up in disgust and he quickly shields Raphael from all of it, with a little magic.

"Oh  _what the fuck_ ," Crowley groaned, disgust filling his voice.

Lucifer looks up, disgruntled and waves the women away with a small whisper. "Are you kidding me,  _brother_?" He scowled, tone indignant.

"Are  _you_ kidding  _me_ , Brother?" Crowley short back, distantly looking back at the women who were walking away slowly before a disgusted expression retook his face and he gagged. "This is what you've been up to? Oh, yeah, Earth will end up in a pile of goo in a few years and a war is going to start, so let me just start indulging myself and softening up like some angst  _brat_."

And suddenly, from all those years ago, the tables have turned. Though, it is rather disrespectful, that Crowley had appeared, unannounced, about to ask for sanctuary and then just started to rant about Lucifer's poor life decisions, but what else can you do? Now, it was Crowley, who had expressed his agitation at his brother, scornful and scathing.

Lucifer closed his eyes, huffing loudly before turning to scan Crowley with narrowed, darn orbs. "We are  _not_ doing this, here, or  _ever_ , brother," he spat before his expression lightened to something akin of interest.

"You've got something behind you," Lucifer notes and Crowley's expression tightened. Not _something_ , but the Antichrist; the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, the man before them, and Lord of Darkness, who was also subsequently, Crowley's biological nephew, and his son. "Oh."

Crowley's jaw tightens. "Yeah." He said.

"You've brought—"

"—I know that I can just miracle in a place, but England's off the map— _oh_ , honestly that was a fucking terrible idea," Crowley snuffed and turned to look at the startled Raphael, who's hand was clenching tightly around Crowley's own.

"We should have moved to,  _I don't know_ , Greenland. Nobody lives there," Crowley added.  _But, the little one would be lonely and isolated._

Crowley sighed and turned to Lucifer, his second earnest confrontation of the fucking decade, and  _shit_ , did the last one go horribly wrong.  _(The fallen Archangel once named Raphael had also expected this to go wrong as well.)_ He cleared his throat.

"I," He started before sighing and looking down at the child, who, while having a iron grip on his hand, was looking at the Los Angeles skyline with wonder and awe. Crowley knelt down and smiled, though he looked a bit constipated with how tight his expression was and how minuscule his lips twitched. "Why don't you go and  _erh_ , play, me and that one need to have an adult talk."

Raphael furrowed his brows, "But,  _dad_ , you said to stay behind you." He muttered and Crowley's eyebrow risen.

"You didn't think I didn't see you looking over there?"

"Daddy," Raphael groaned, tips of his ears burning bright red and Crowley grinned, tapping the child's nose.

"Run along, Raphael, it'll be fine."

The child nods and Crowley's expression shuts as Lucifer watches with mild interest and accusation. " _Daddy_?" He mimics, incredulous as Crowley closes the distance between the two.

Then, Ruler of Hell scoffs, "Of course you are. Always was a soft one." He muttered.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "As you've told me for  _billions_ of years," He replied back, easily as poisonous as his brother.

The older of the two's nose's twitched and his eyes narrowed at the younger in irritation. "So," Lucifer started, tone airy, "What honor has been bestowed upon me to get a visit from my darling brother and my...  _son_?"

Crowley's eyes narrowed, slits turning even slender in anger and he hissed through his teeth, " _Son_? Who you so much neglected like  _ours_ did to us? He's not your son, not since the day he's been arranged to be delivered to some hotshot ambassador."

"And he's yours?"

"Rightfully so, brother." Crowley responded, voice firm, "You have not liked our Creator, as you've started a war over the humans you so delightfully mix with, but you are like Them in every  _fucking_ way."

In a flash, Lucifer's hand shoots up, probably to  _strangle_ the insolence out of Crowley.  _Too bad_ , Crowley thought to himself and his hand twitched in response, flying up just as quick and catching Lucifer's. Crowley grins, baring his teeth in answer and his shades just fall down,  _just_ enough for the man to get a peek at his serpentine eyes, telling the King of Hell, how  _angry_ he was at his brother.

"I thought you ssssaid that there wassssssn't to be a time for whatever thisssss isssss, brother," He hissed, smug, forked tongue coming out much stronger than Crowley would have liked.

Lucifer snatches his hand back. "No, we're not." He said.

Crowley stiffly stands back, faintly aware that Raphael was staring at them, curious, but had moved past that and looked at Lucifer. "We—well,  _I_  need your help." He said.

"After all this time?" Lucifer snorts, "Why don't you go begging and sniffling to your little Angel boyfriend?"

Crowley expression darkens. "I think being under Heaven's watch would have the little one smote in no less than a second," He replied, brushing away Lucifer's attempt to anger him.

Lucifer smirks, " _Little one_. What was it that you called him? Ah. Right, Raphael, was it? Feeling sentimental?" He asked, completely changing the subject, something Crowley noticed, which meant that the older of the two knew that Crowley knew that he was trying to change the subject.

"Oh, I don't know. I just got a little advice on somebody about parenting," Crowley muttered.

"Parenting tip?" Lucifer laughed. " _Parenting_ tip? I would have thought you'd know how to deal with those little humans."

Crowley bristled. "It's been a long time since I've been...  _him_ ," the demon saids stiffly.

"Yet," Lucifer rebutted with a sigh , sounding almost wistful, "You are so eager and quick to retake your role as  _him_. What does that say about you, I wonder?"

Crowley shot Lucifer a dirty glance, "That maybe I'm just not a good demon," He replied tightly before sighing.

"Let's get to the point, brother. A few days ago, there was a slight miscalculation on my part, and Hell has found me. I need your help," he stated, honest and Lucifer's brows raised.

"What, you're scared of some low-level demons? You? Archangel Raphael?"

"I think we've both forgotten that we're not Archangels anymore,  _Samael_ ," Crowley sourly said. "I will have the whole legion of Hell after me and the little one because I've taken him and they'd find out."

Then, Crowley added, "I'm sure Hell is still angry about me destroying one of their own out of existence and discorporating another two." He was not smug about it,  _he wasn't it. (He totally was.)_

"Cheeky," Lucifer commented, idly. He cared as much for Hell as he did with a random human's life, nowadays. Which was, close to none. "And, what do you want me to do about that? Go yell at them to leave you alone?"

"We both know they won't. I have the Antichrist and I'm raising him to not end the world and to not start their little tantrum against Heaven." Crowley sniffs, tone almost bland, as if the two only Fallen Archangels in existence was speaking about the weather.

 _(Like_ ,  _yes, Fred, tonight we will be having minor rain showers, but nothing too wild. Damn, those rain clouds up there, them cheeky little shits.)_

"We need sanctuary."

Lucifer leaned in, "Are you suggesting that you both want to live here, where you clearly saw me about to fuck someone?" He asked, tone barely above a whisper and grinning.

Crowley faintly remembers that,  _that_ was walked that walked in on and he purses his lips. "Maybe not," He replied, hesitant, but silently noting how accepting his brother was. Well, certainly, the Ruler of Hell, didn't deny them, so Crowley considered it a win in his book.

"Though, Los Angeles," Crowley smirked, "City of Angels, it is your turf, isn't it? Perhaps just notifying you that you have a couple more occult forces in your city. I don't think I'll be having Raphael stick around to see you having sex."

"Yeah," Lucifer rolled his eyes, "And now you can go get lost."

"I'll see you, brother," Crowley waves and turns to call back Lucifer's prophetical and biological offspring.

Together, both of them disappear as the elevator closes and Lucifer gives a deep sigh. Well, he's certainly lost his appetite for the _human flesh_ now. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What am I doing now? Well, I'm running low on chapters in stock so... off to Antarctica to hibernate?


	12. wingman

Theirnew home wasn't half bad, Crowley had to admit, as he walked into their warm lounge, halls and rooms bathed in a gold-orange light—very different from his monochrome aesthetic, that he used to have in the flat. While the demon hadn't like Pollution, it was everywhere, painstakingly, spread around Los Angeles like some hidden plague that the humans were aware of, but didn't care about, but Raphael had liked Los Angeles. It was less lonely than their isolated and dark flat, in Central London.

The demon had to just groan at himself in thought, however. For as much tact as Crowley had prided himself in having, he certainly didn't possess any. "Notifying you that we'll be sticking around your turf?"  _Really?_ Crowley didn't have to gag, that was purely by dramatic choice, but he was tempted to right now. But, the child that was his, named after the fallen Archangel Raphael, who was also him, had pulled at his sleeve, demanding for a bedtime story. And, who was Crowley to his little tyke of his story?

So, he peeled himself from his rather murky thoughts and had stammered through openings, no creativity at all in his bones at the moment, but then had stopped on something, something indescribable,  _ineffable_ , and had then retold the tale of a wily old serpent, who got too curious, and had slithered up to an angel because he was curious.  _(He was. He was deeply intrigued of the little principality who was named after him. And look what that got him.)_

Crowley had noticed that the little one had fallen asleep almost immediately, but the demon kept whispering to him of the tales of a demon who didn't really fall and of an angel who was too different for his own good, tone escaping it's bitter hold and entering somewhere fond, wistful. The demon stopped when he noticed, voice halting to a stop.

He didn't tell the story of a wayward Fallen Angel and his Pure angel again.

 

* * *

 

They didn't hear a word from Lucifer for a long time. And it was fine that way. Crowley had panicked when Raphael had entered the age of five, and had a tiny crisis, but all was well, when he had called up Maya again.  _("He's five. I know I'm suppose to be better at this, but isn't he suppose to be sent to school at five? That's terrifying! What do I do? How do I send him to school like that?" And it is, very terrifying. There were other hellish little humans running around with his little tyke as well, and that wasn't a very pleasant thought.)_

Until two days before Crowley had to enroll the little one into primary school—well Crowley had to remember the insignificant detail—or elementary. Stupid subjects to learn to get on in life as a regular human being. Perfect for his little Raphael, who Crowley was trying  _very_ hard, and doing not-half bad with the job, to shape him into a perfectly  _normal_ human boy. Well, that is, until two days ago, where shit hit the fan.

Lucifer visited, bristling and angry after kid hours, or in Crowley's books, 9 and after. "Somebody stole my wings," he gritted out, and Crowley looked baffled.

"Your  _wings_? As in, that little physical manifestation of your Grace, or whatever we call it these days?" He questioned, brow rising in curiosity and voice lifting in pitch.

"Brother, we know that your definitions of our wings was always a little basic," Lucifer huffed, "But, somebody has stolen my wings!"

"Really?" Crowley drawled out, dry. "And, why are you coming to me? Asking me to heal you a new pair? If you haven't gotten the message, I can't do that anymore."

_(He couldn't do more than basic treatment and if he'd dare to burn a huge portion of his blasphemous and leftover grace, a rather lethal virus, like cancer. Those were left on special occasions, though. And while Crowley loved his brother immensely, that love was tough and Crowley had no intention on trying to involve himself, and inadvertently, the problem child, in the Morningstar's problems. He's had enough issues as it already is.)_

"No, brother. Somebody has  _stolen_ my  _wings_. Just a week after you arrived!"

"Are you trying to accuse me of petty thievery?"

Lucifer grasped his forearm, grip tightening into a painful hold and hissed, " _Brother_ , I need help. My wings were  _never_ suppose to touch this fucking rock like this!"

"Well," Crowley snorted, "Then you shouldn't have clipped them off because obviously a human couldn't have just walked up to the Morningstar himself and sliced them off like they were fucking chicken wings. What do humans call them, these days? Oh right,  _karma_ , or  _responsibility_ , if you're so generous with synonyms. It's not my problem, I already have enough trouble trying to avoid influencing the child for destruction, please do not make my job harder as it is, brother."

"Crowley," Lucifer snapped, "If you help me take my wings back to where they belong, I'll stop Armageddon."

Crowley furiously whipped his hand back, serpentine eyes narrowing into slim, angry slits. "You're bloody  _lying_ , we both know you are." He growled out. "You don't want to stop this, brother and we both know you never will. There is no reason to. After I help you, you'll just kick me away and look on as the Apocalypse arrives on your high horse."

"Forget it," Crowley shook his head, "I won't help you."

And then waves—because in this little corner of Lucifer's territory, is entirely his, wrapped around in his cosmic energy, his celestial signature—his hand leisurely, booting Lucifer out with no tact and all smug. And ten-thousand-percent feeling like he just added another six millennia into his age.  _(Though he did ruminate about the thievery of an Archangel's wings, despite being fallen. The Fall might have twisted and burnt their features into unimaginable things, warping them into creatures of disgust and anger, but they, at their core, were still Angels, albeit fallen. It spelt bad news for his little one and him.)_

Crowley yanked off his glasses, allowing his eyes to be free with no spectators, and leaned his head back against the couch in trepidation. "Fuck," he muttered, defeatedly, then got up to his feet and disappeared. He better be back on time to make Raphael's breakfast when the little kid wakes up or he's going to flay his brother alive, strip him of his corporal form, and fucking burn his celestial energy into nothing, but little atoms scattered in the air.

He appears in a small blink of an eye, by the Lucifer's bar inside his penthouse. The famed Ruler of Hell is sitting on a stool, drowning himself in frustration and alcohol, the two bitter flavors twisting and turning inside of him. "Come to gloat after kicking me out of my own turf?" Lucifer slurred.

"Jesus, fucking Christ. It hasn't even been half an hour and you're already pissed drunk?" Crowley snuffed. "Get off your ass brother."

"Fuck you Raphael, you're always sitting on your ass for  _centuries_  and being a coward, you can't tell me that."

Crowley huffed, "That isn't my name anymore. You can get off your fucking ass or I'm going to levitate you. And trust me, you don't want that when your piss drunk," he drawled out.

"Why in the nine levels of hell would I do that?"

"Because, I couldn't just sit there and wait for something to happen. So, we're going to find your wings. And maybe kill the bastard who stole them."

Crowley grinned, toothy and barring his fangs like a predator and so unlike Raphael, who's pacifist nature made him a bit of a soft airhead. It's been a long time, though, so you can't really blame the demon. The older of the two raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, you indecisive brother of mine." He harrumphed, sobering up immediately, getting to his feet and straightening his suit jacket with a tug. Yet, he was grinning all the same.

And, since eternity for the two demons, they were on the same side again, for once. How nostalgic.

 

* * *

 

" _Hell_ , with all the rich people in here, it's becoming quite suffocating with all their ego and money." Crowley muttered quietly, adjusting his bow tie and wrinkling his nose. He wasn't one for bow ties, it just seemed every time he wore one, even worse things happened around him.  _(It had also reminded the demon of Aziraphale, who favored cotton collars and his tartan bow ties.)_

"Oh, quiet brother. It isn't like you haven't had your share of infinity sources of riches," Lucifer scoffed as they moved to a table, unmindful of the humans surrounding them.

Crowley immediately spots the flute of champagne on the table, grins and snatched it up. Though, his brow furrowed and sniffed it, taking a test sip and cringed deeply, quickly setting the offending object back down. "Oh, that's disgusting," He muttered and looked back up.

"This extravagant little show and you can't even afford some decent champagne?" He muttered, scowling.

"Not the point," Lucifer hissed and Crowley rolled his eyes before huffing.

"I'm doing this out of my own good will, let me have some fun," he hissed back, "I haven't had time to drink trying to raise the kid."

Lucifer huffed and giving Crowley a side-eye and went back to glaring at the pitiful sod who was auctioning some very... questionable items. Crowley faintly notes that if Aziraphale were here, he'd be in mild shock and offense, but he wasn't, so the demon immediately pushed he thoughts away and straightened.

"Okay," Crowley murmured, "How do you want to do this?"

"We wait."

"Wait? This coming from the demon who would have slaughtered on first offense?"

"Times have changed."

Crowley critically eyes Lucifer, who had yet to look at him and gives a faint smirk. "Clearly," he replied, honest. Because, times  _have_ changed, and Crowley would like to say that it has been for the better.  _Famous last words_ , or in other words, stupid optimism.

Silence drowns everybody attending and Crowley looks up, expecting Lucifer's wings to be on showcase, but they haven't. Go figure, the demon had yet to sense any occult presence that wasn't the two of them, yet, but Crowley had around humans around his six millenniums as a demon, he  _should_  have known straight away, when he had walked into the room. Crowley narrowed his eyes and turned towards Lucifer, suspicious.

"Say," he started, light, "How did you find out about this?"

"Oh, just you know," Lucifer smiled.

"No, I don't," Crowley replied flatly.

"Just, some friends," Lucifer replied, in a strained breath.

Crowley narrowed his eyes and then closed them. His serpentine orbs, behind his sunglasses, had snapped open and he quickly turned towards the elder. "You mean those friends in their fancy  _FBI_ costume?" He hissed, forked tongue ready to just  _announce_ it's presence to the word.

Lucifer chuckles, if not nervously. Crowley gives a quiet laugh in reply, not at all feeling the cheer.

"How funny. The Devil himself working with the FBI."

"Yes, I'm an absolute comedian," Lucifer replied, clearly having the same dry and sarcastic tone that Crowley did.  _It ran in the family_. "Now,  _shut it_ , and pay attention."

"Yes, boss." Crowley drawled, then took the champagne flute and lifted it up to his mouth, yet not drinking. He had half the mind to miracle it into something for his more refined tastes.  _Yeah, okay_.

With a small glance, the champagne is swapped. Then, he takes a smug, little sip. "Tough crowd," Crowley commented, voice loose.

"You don't know the half of it," a voice speaks from Lucifer's left and Crowley turns, eyebrow cocked up.

"Who the Hell are you?"

"I should be asking you that," the woman huffed, "But, if you're here with Lucifer, than I suspect he trusts you."

" _Trust me_?" His attention zones in on that and he questions it vocally, voice high in pitch, incredulous. The world would have to end if demons went around trusting each other. Even if they were brothers. "Funny."

"Detective!" Lucifer gasped, and turned to look at her.

The woman narrowed her eyes, "How did you know I'd come here?" She asked.

"Because I'm admirably consistent?" Lucifer shot back with a smile, then his smile melted off with ease, "How did you even get in here?"

She smirks, "I've got news for you, pal." She replied, with a tip of her head and a haughty tone, "You're not the only one with a little mojo."

Crowley snorts softly.

"Touché," the Devil replied.

"And you're welcome by the way." She leans in, tone quieting to an even smaller whisper, as if she had expected Crowley to not be able to hear with his rather enhanced hearing.  _(It was rather easy when he separated the different audio frequencies humans generated for a specific one.)_

"In about five minutes, FBI is going to storm this place, so we have to go."

Lucifer sent Crowley a look and glances back at the detective, "But, we're just getting started." He replied.

"'We?'"

"Right," Lucifer smiles, "You guys haven't met yet."

"Allow me to introduce you to Crowley," the Morningstar said, "My Brother."

Her eyebrows raise at the rather not-human name and Crowley rolls his eyes. "Did your parents really have that satanist fetish?" She questioned, tone considerably suspicious and the demon's brows knit.

" _What_?"

"Detective," Lucifer huffed.

"Next up!" The man, which Crowley had never bothered to get the name of, or remember it, had announced.

 _Crowley_ wasn't an idiot. He wasn't. He was  _not_. He's been around the humans for six millenniums, he should have known, he should have expected it to, but he didn't. Because he was an idiot. In front of them, stood in full, fake glory, a pair of white, ethereal wings, that hadn't radiates divinity or otherworldly presence at all. While Crowley could say that his brother was a master of disguise and suppressing his presence to other occult beings, he wasn't.

"That's fake," He muttered.

_(Though a small thought echoed in his mind. Envy and bitterness seeping into his person like liquid fire, like a poison being injected into his veins. Crowley didn't like it, but the fake had implied that the real ones were of the same, ethereal design. And the bitterness ran deep, at how Lucifer had gotten to keep his original wings, if he didn't keep his scarred form, of how God was so willing to let her Morningstar, her favorite, be a little more not-demon than Crowley, who had suffered through liquid sulfur and of the burning magma. Who's bright and verdant wings, had burnt off, feather by feather, twisting and turning.)_

He snapped out of his daze, anger practically oozing off of him by heavy ounces. His gaze had been frozen on the wings, which were shown in a bright spotlight, just like the other two at his table were, and then all hell broke loose. FBI agents stormed the auction house, people screamed and ran, yet his anger hadn't allowed him too.

It burnt bright and deep, just like his wings did that, just like he did, and in an impulsive blast, Crowley, had once again, froze time. The Devil himself had eyed Crowley with heavy caution, but the two demons had still approached the wings the same.

"You said they were fake," Lucifer commented as his eyes raked over the wings, bathing in the light. A shine caught his eye and he turned his head, getting closer to that portion of the wing.

Contempt had risen and Lucifer had took a step back, almost aghast, and patted the left wing, feeling the cheap plastic and the stifling softness of the fake feathers. "They'refake," he breathed out, tone darkening with anger.

_(They're more than fake, Crowley thought as he glared at the wings as if they'd just burn if he had stared hard enough.)_

They didn't. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaah, the chapters are just getting worse and worse ;-;  
> i really want to finish this fic, but i'm losing the drive i  
> had at the beginning and that's very upsetting. ' ^ '  
> aaghhh procrastinating writing chapters flskjdaksdl


	13. nebula

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know why i think "sulfur" is "sulphur"

****Theystretch out, angular and narrow, perhaps referencing a speedier bird, than his green pair. His wings are rough, with feathers, whose ends, were as sharp as blades and were of the deepest black in all of existence. They had their uses, of course, just as his last pair did, serving the same purpose, but it was just—the _message_ it left behind. Perhaps the news that he had fallen had really sunken, and that he was a demon now, had been ingrained into his conscious, but his  _wings_.

They had let him glide through nebulae that he created, stars that sparkles as their creator had passed them and planets whose skies housed a guest. Then, they were gone in a pile of ashes, by the burning sulfur and magma. The anger from yesterday hadn't left, and being shown, secondhand, that his brother, who was the first to fall, had kept his wings, was a bitter pill to swallow. The door to the bathroom vibrates, just a bit and Crowley faintly hears soft knocking as the doorknob rattled.

"Daddy?" Raphael's muffled voice comes from the other side and Crowley eyes his wings, sad, before drawing them back inside of his being.

"Coming, bud," He whispered, anger draining out of him, like sponge soaking up water, or in his case, fatherhood soaking up anger, and envy, and—

"I'm coming."

 

* * *

 

He doesn't hear from his brother in a few, after their Auction House disaster. But, he has a sense of what Lucifer has become and what he's been getting himself into. In truth, Crowley cares, because they're still brothers, even if fallen, and even if it is tough love and not as strong as it use to be, the demon still loves his brother.  _(Of course demons were creatures that were able to love. They use to be Angels, after all. Falling simply did not take that away. But, what they became did make it harder. The rumors and slander, curses and scorn at their inability to love anything and nothing at all, had stunted them, so few demons were rarely willing to love or feel loved.)_

Until, Crowley does hear from the Morningstar, himself. Raphael is in primary school— _kindergarten, they called it, ugh human terms, just pick a word_ —and Crowley doesn't seem him from 8 to half past 3, every weekday. It's stupid, and makes the hairs on the demon's neck raises every time he has to attempt that stupid parent meeting, but he walks through the door fearlessly, nods like he understands and voiced some some input. They're called conferences and Crowley had been in a total of one, but he'd like to burn down the building already as soon as he walked in.

It's a forced amiable chat, with pleasantries and false smiles that made Crowley want to cut his tongue off from impatience. Raphael smiles giddily beside him, and that just makes enduring all of this bullshit a bit more worth it. In the end, Crowley walked out hand in hand with the little one, feeling as if another six millenniums had passed and that suddenly, his flaming red hair, had thinned and it's color had washed out like the human's did. Except, it didn't, thankfully.

Though, when they get home— _home_ —Crowley has to usher Raphael up into his room, give a small, and softened, non-Crowley-the-big-bad-fucking-demon glare he did at the pests that had invaded his previous flat years ago, and greets his brother, who lounged lazily on their couch, fiddling with one of the many trinkets Raphael collected. Crowley sighs, and rolls his eyes, turning to peer at the Ruler of Hell from behind his dark glasses.

"Interesting bit," Lucifer commented, "Parenting. You know, the Detective has a little one herself, though that small human is much more, shall we say,  _devious_."

He smiles at that and eyes, orbs as pitch as black, flicker upward to glance at Crowley. "Your doing?" Crowley mumbled as he saunters past Lucifer, into the kitchen and towards the wine cabinet, specifically miracled and made as soon as he moved in.

"Oh, no." Lucifer grinned with a small, scandalized gasp, which made the Serpent of Eden scoff. The smile slides off of the Devil's face and Crowley takes a tentative sip from his scotch.

"I have located my wings, however."

Crowley's mood  _sours_ , like cheap and bad grape wine that's been sitting in a cellar for a decade too long. His jaw tightens and the grip he has on the glass almost  _shatters_ it. It makes a small  _crack_  and a small, hairline crack appears. Crowley immediately sets it down and smiles, too big and too fake.

"So, now that you've located it, what'd you want me to do this time, Lord of Hell?" He asked, voice full of mockery.

"Let's go pay him a visit, shall we?"

There's a defining silence, to which Crowley tilts his head and jeers at Lucifer. His brother  _has_ always been a dramatic bitch, he relented in thought.

"I have a child who needs to be attended to."

"Oh, don't worry, I'll have someone come and amuse him."

"No."

" _Brother_ , it's my wings. A divine object in the middle of Los Angeles, a  _human_ city."

" _Brother_ ," Crowley couldn't help, but sneer back, "He's the  _Antichrist_ —the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, blah-blah- _blah_ , you get the idea."

"Come back in, I don't know, a few hours. I'll have him in bed by that time."

"My  _wings_."

"They can wait a few more hours."

_(Crowley most definitely can.)_

And then he boots the Ruler of Hell, biological father of his child—which without context sounds like he's had an affair with Lucifer,  _which is absolutely disgusting_ —out of his home and slams the door on the Devil's face. There's only a minuscule amount of satisfaction at seeing his face as a wooden door closes shut on it, but Crowley's gonna take what he can get.

 

* * *

 

If it were up to Lucifer, who had by now valued mocking gracefulness, he would have rang the doorbell and waited by like a good little dog with hands behind his back and a small smile that spoke differently with his eyes. But, Crowley wasn't like that. He had never been patient, not even as Raphael, and that showed when he had shouted, " _knock, knock,"_ before kicking the door down as if he'd own the place. Truth to be told, Crowley could have shaped it to be that way and nobody would have ever noticed, perhaps the  _kind_ , foolish man who had duped them once, at that Auction, might have, but it was of no worry.

Crowley turns to Lucifer. "Since you've been whining and moaning so much—after you," He beckoned with a flourish of his hand.

Lucifer sneers, "Not my style," but he walks in anyways.

 

* * *

 

They take the wings, in a slightly less efficient manner.

Lucifer gets sick satisfaction seeing the man shriek with fear and soil his pants. Crowley just wants to fucking  _leave_ when he feels the grace, as cold as it burns now, brush up against him. It stings and the sight of the divine, and pure white wings, something that Lucifer had retained in his fall, is a sickening sight. The demon smashes the glass, vicious, haphazardly takes the wings and wills them away with a click of his fingers.

It's bitter, it's ugly and Crowley's never felt so much more like a demon then, but he pushes it away for the moment.

They leave in a mass of splinters and a broken door. Crowley is silent in their drive back, there's no Queen track playing to fill in the deafening silence and all they hear is the engine roaring, enraged like it's driver. Lucifer doesn't even get to exchange any gratitudes before Crowley zooms off, a growl stuck in his throat.

_(For once, he really felt like a demon. All of the ugly emotions that defined a textbook demon swirls together, like some monstrosity of a nebula, of exploding and blotchy, sickly colors of the most hideous shades trying to resonate into something beautiful, but missing it by a few trillion miles._

_He hates it.)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm being really burnt out with this, which is sad, because i really want to finish this story ;<  
> i'm sorry guys ;(


	14. interlude: crowley

He still prays. On the occasional bad night, alcohol-driven and slightly more miserable than normal. Crowley prays from time to time, even if there is no faith to be given. It's said that demons shouldn't pray anymore since they've strayed from the Lord, but which idiot had said  _that_? Probably Gabriel. But, Crowley knew, that God, where've They were, still listened, well, sort of.

Crowley prayed, sometimes he didn't know why he did, straining his neck as he glanced upward, no real location in mind, and had just  _started_ to question again, either at the Metatron, who certainly was just an overfilled mailbox for God, or at God Themself. Though, it was unspoken that God was like that one friend you text, leaves you on read for a good week before replying with a single message and then ghosting you again. It's terrible, and even trying to  _talk_ to God as a demon, now, was even worse.

So, no, Crowley had only prayed  _sometimes_. But, it wasn't really praying, was it? Looking upward and starting to question again, about  _why? Why do you allow them to continue to suffer?_ Just like the good Healer he was. There always is no reply. So, Crowley doesn't question it again. Until, he does, and it's a painful rinse-and-repeat process that just continues to cycle through down the centuries with no real stop.

Just like now. It was a sharp 9:45 AM, and Crowley was the only inhabitant inside of their home. On the off days, like today, he drank until he couldn't tell what was left or right, stumbles before sobering up, and continuing to drink again. Sometimes, just like now, his big book which listed every galaxy, every nebula, every planet, every star ever to be created, would be on the table, pages fluttering out and floating about. His gaze would linger on each and every one, fingers touching the page that floated towards him.

He remembers the bursts of colors that gave the Orion Nebula life, the clusters of rocks that shaped Titan as a moon, how brightly a star burned—and how beautiful everything was. Crowley prayed, sometimes, and sang to the stars, reaching for a connection, almost all the time, but God never had answered any of his prayers, and so the stars he created, hadn't either. But, that was okay.

Even if disappointment burnt deep and anger turned to a familiar and bitter taste on his tongue, it was okay.

_("You said you were going to test them all someday," Crowley choked out, tone weak and eyes cast upward, at the sheets of paper holding every existing star, planet, location in all of creation as they orbited around his being._

_Like they were stars. Crowley turned his gaze downward and papers had swiftly merged back into the book as a neat stack. The thick and heavy object in his hand settled and he closed it with a resounding thud._

_"But, you shouldn't have tested them into destruction." )_

 

* * *

 

Bitterness ran high, anger was low and resignation was a resounding look on life. Everyday was a mundane cycle of  _human_ life, forever in a routine that you shouldn't break, chaos whispering into your ear at the depths of night, threatening to break a bland, almost-brown—like the shade of old paper books has—tint of a peaceful life. But, that was okay. Nobody had soothed his inner turmoil and nightmares since he fell, so nobody should start now.

_(Wings as pure as white. Grace burning bright, like a star, but cold. Stars shouldn't burn cold. Anger, bitterness and grief swirling and mixing together into some ugly monstrosity of a nebula. Chaotic, fighting and splotchy. Ugly.)_

Raphael had found another small human to be his friend. Crowley hadn't voiced his disapproval to it, because he didn't contain any. Anybody should have friends, even that dipshit of a Duke of Hell and his little friend, who seemed closer than two demons should be. Or a terrible demon, with his angel friend, who still hung to his past, tired and yearning, for six thousand years too long.

Besides, a rather detached part of himself had noted, almost clinically, that if the Antichrist has a tighter hold onto reality and Earth itself, maybe it won't destroy the planet and start the Second, and last, Great War. He pushed it away.  _(Raphael isn't an it. He isn't the Antichrist, not now, not if I ra—raise him right. He's my son.)_ His thoughts almost comes to a screeching halt.

Crowley's serpentine eyes gaze at the small child, who inhaled and exhales at a steady rate. He was so defenseless, weak as a human and  _right there_. If Crowley was any better of a demon who was set on stopping Armageddon, he would have killed the child, right then and there. But, Crowley was too much of a not-model demon. He couldn't kill children, he never could.  _(Not even when Noah's Ark set off.)_

"Son, huh?" He smirked, voice soft and flicked the little tyke's nose, which scrunched up, before settling again. "It's not so bad once you get use to it."

 _No, it really isn't._ And so, slowly, but surely, the ugly nebula of emotions has dissipated and all was well again.

 

* * *

 

Falling, as grand as it is, and world-shattering as it may be, was a small thing. Angels hadn't fallen in six thousands years, and even those who did were not note-worthy, just tiny little fledglings compared to the size of the Universe as it stands now, and their existence in Heaven buried deep into nothingness with time. On the other end of the spectrum, the Banishment of an Archangel, was resounding—large and loud. Every Angel could feel it to their cores, thrumming and echoed.

The Falling of Samael, the Morningstar, was the signal of War, brewed over endless time of tension and bitterness.

The Falling of the Archangel Raphael, the Healer of God, was short, painful and silent. Nobody knew, and Crowley had felt a deep, burning sense of shame the first time he felt relieved over that.  _(He didn't feel relieved after that.)_ They say, to this day, that Raphael is currently sailing through the universe, lighting it up with a touch of his Grace as we speak. Crowley laughs in their faces and moves on with life.

_(I'm right here, right here, in front of you.)_

And lands back into that perpetual hole of  _look at me, it's me, I'm right here—_ and moves on. And rinse and repeat.

Nobody has heard from Raphael since the war has started. Nobody has heard about Crowley, until the Serpent of Eden has killed one of the Dukes of Hell on the day the countdown to the End of the World would start. He was like a ghost.  _(Raphael is a ghost.)_

When Raphael fell—all was silent. Except him. Screaming and clawing in pain. Sobbing, crying, all the like, as burning sulfur had slowly rotted away his wings, tore his skin off of his body, as it reformed, into some charred, burning mess. His feathers were burnt, brittle and turning into ash at the most delicate touches. Raphael, then, had tried his best— _heal, heal heal heal heal—_

And Crowley came out, with sleek wings that were of the blackest of nights, painful to touch and with skin that was untouched by the horrors of Hell.

The creation of Crowley was silent, unknowing. Well, there were small miracles Crowley could appreciate. This was one of them.

 

* * *

 

Crowley doesn't hear from Lucifer in a while. That's good, that means he doesn't have to associate with the Morningstar and his troubles. Instead, the demon focuses on the boy he's been terrible neglecting in the presence of Lucifer's missing—now found—wings. Raphael was clever, and growing. Every birthday they had celebrated, though Crowley had never really learned to, was just another reminder that a large chunk of time in the thirteen years of time, allowed, was gone.

Crowley doesn't know when he would tell Raphael about what he really is, because it's inevitable and Crowley has never been very optimistic. The boy  _will_ grow and his powers as the Antichrist  _will_ surface. It's bound to get ugly if Raphael isn't aware.

 

* * *

 

They celebrate Raphael's seventh birthday out in a park, with a big cake and every child he's seen inside that wretched classroom. Crowley sits in the background on the bench, arms crossed and brows knitted together. His yellow, serpentine eyes squint at the ducks from behind his glasses, and it's very bittersweet.  _(It's a piece of home, back in London.)_

It's his seventh birthday, the Apocalypse is coming like a second placer hounding behind first, hungry for victory, and Crowley has yet to say anything.   
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AnGEL! I'm sorry- I apologize. Whatever I said, I didn't mean it. WOrK wIth Me, I'M aPoLoGiziNg HerE! yEs? GOOD! Get In tHe CaR! 
> 
> ...What I'm trying to say is I apologize for these really, low-quality and short chapters. I'm burnt out, which is crappy, and I'm going to take a short break. This is it for now, I'll see you guys somewhere... I dunno, late-august? :D


	15. update.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just an update on the status of this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this post will be deleted once the next chapter has been released.)
> 
> (sorry.)

...hi. 

 

god, this feels so weird. i keep author interactions to a minimum (lies) in the chapter notes, and well- here we are. 

 

because i made a promise, and i don't really keep promises. 

 

so uh, chapter... 13? _14_? it's in my drafts and sitting at the half way mark, wasting away while my brain is shooting different ideas at me. and, school's never really been an excuse because i'd just stay up till dawn to write my chapters if im really invested in my stories. and well, from the latest products, it seems like i haven't really been into the story- this story, that i felt so strongly for months ago. and i really, _really_ want to finish this fic, but i just cant seem to find the motivation to draft out it's final moments, its chapters leading towards the end. i can't seemto find the energy to tell the story that's rotting inside my head, because- i'm a lazy and enthused bastard. for now, chapter 13 (14??) is sittingin my drafts, half-way finished and will probably stay that way up until the start of next year, unfortunately. hopefully, i'll find the incentive to come back to this story that i long to complete. for now, the journey of our scarred raphael, and sad aziraphale- to be continued. 

 

 _however_ , i seemed to be getting ahead of myself and have already drafted a new good omens au fic based on some instagram prompts. haha whoops. i probably will leave that hanging too, but hey, it'll keep you guys busy while i get some more r&r for this story. be on the lookout, if you still wanna read my terrible writing lol and i'll see you guys sometime soon. ;>

 

-kuugeki. 


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